Puppeteers
by BlackToWhite
Summary: For so long, they have stood in the background, for so long, they have guided the destiny of the Wizarding World. But who are... they, exactly? Who is playing who? And what are their ultimate goals? - Graphic Violence, Death, Bad Language, Lemons (maybe) - No Pairings, at least nothing long-term. Formerly A CURSED BLOODLINE.
1. Prologue: The Potion

**STORY INFORMATION**

**Name: **Puppeteers**  
>Author:<strong> BlackToWhite  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Graphic Violence, Bad Language

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 1 – The Potion [Prologue]<strong>

The wards would come down in exactly twenty-two minutes and thirteen seconds.

It was rather strange that he knew this fact this precisely, but, after all, he was practically the inventor of modern-day warding, so it shouldn't be _that_ surprising that he felt connections to these wards, that he had constructed himself and that only he could use, that no one else could feel. However, despite his deep connections to his creations, there was one thing missing that would allow him to recharge the wards again: magical power.

Not that he wasn't powerful, of course – hell, he was probably one of the most powerful wizards that had ever lived – but even powerful wizards like him could be drained. And he was. He was now effectively trapped within his personal potions lab, with the time slowly ticking away, while his own son was slowly dismantling the wards that protected him from what would probably be a very gruesome death. It was now rather not a question _whether_ it would happen, but simply _when._

He quickly glanced around in the potions lab, hoping against hope that he would find the necessary ingredients for an Energy Restoring Potion, but no such luck. Nearly all his ingredients were used up, he only had a pint of basilisk venom, a griffin feather and a few other ingredients in the room – ironically enough, they were all incredibly rare and expensive, but not of any use right now. All his mundane potion supplies (and quite a few of the rare ones, too), he had used for his newest project, the Bloo-

Of course. He mentally smacked his forehead. The Bloodline Curse. The potion that he had been working on for six months straight – it was nearly done. Why not use it now – it wouldn't prevent his death, but he felt that he had exceeded his prime anyway, now at one-hundred and twenty-two years of age. The only reason that he had fought death for so long was that the thought of leaving all of his belongings to his son – the gold wasn't the problem, it was the knowledge that he had gathered, especially that concerning the Dark Arts, the very reason that his one-time best friend had turned on him – he couldn't understand the difference between dark and evil. Should these tomes fall into the hands of his son, he doubted that the world would survive the result.

He sighed, allowing himself to drift into his memories for a short while.

_[FLASHBACK]_

"_Push!" The healer said, looking down at his wife, who was currently in labour, her beautiful face scrunched up in concentration, beads of sweat forming all over her body. She was swearing in Gaelic, her home tongue, and even though his Gaelic was rudimentary at best, he could understand the gist of what she was saying – and it was not pretty._

_At exactly this moment, the house shook – the wards of their manor were being breached at this very instant. §LOCKDOWN!§, he hissed, but it was too late. The attackers were very swift and had already entered the house, thus rendering the lockdown that the manor went into useless. He took a deep breath and looked at the healer, who was looked rather frightened, just as his wife was._

"_Look out for her." He told the healer. He didn't even wait for a response – he spun on spot and left the room, leaving behind two very frightened women._

_Outside the door, he rapidly began construction parsel wards on the door. They weren't at full strength, but that was intentional, since he planned to weave a blood ward into it anyway, which would make it impossible for anyone to enter, even for himself and that only he could dismantle and the parsel wards, should they be at full strength, would only interfere with the blood magic that he would perform._

_He quickly cut himself across the palm with his potions knife and, dipping his wand into the flow of blood, drew three runes upon the door, in his own blood. No sooner that they were drawn, he began chanting in a mixture of Parseltongue and an ancient druidic language. The blood runes, were beginning to glow, first a deep blue, then a sickly green, then a bright red and-_

_Shit. A sickly green killing curse just flew over his shoulder and he cursed. He had been so close to finishing the blood ward and his wife would have been safe – but now it was too late. If he tried to finish the chant, he would die and leave the charm unfinished – better to try and fight his opponents. This decision, made in milliseconds, prompted him to stop mid-chant and conjure a slab of concrete that he quickly levitated over to where the attack had come from – and not a moment too soon. Another curse impacted with the slab, that immediately burst into tiny shards, giving him an unobstructed view of his attacker- or rather, attackers._

_They were two people that he knew very well, but that he had hoped to never, __**ever**__ see again._

"_Thanatos and Saladin." He growled, recognizing his two younger brothers, with sick gleams in their eyes. They both looked a lot like him – slender figure and black hair that fell to their shoulders – but the numerous dark rituals that they had performed without doubt over the last years had taken their toll. Their skin was unnaturally pale and they were radiating blackness in a way that just felt twisted and wrong to him. Their eyes, opposed to his striking, emerald green eyes, were black, not the lively, albeit cruel brown they had been during their childhood – another side effect of tampering with something that was better left alone._

"_Brother." They smirked as one. "Long time no see." Apparently, know that he was conversing with them, they had lost their immediate interest to kill him, though there were both still idly twirling their respective wands._

"_What are you doing here?" He hissed, not quite as venomously as he had intended, though – he was worried sick about his wife and didn't like thinking about what these sick fucks would do to her. His brothers apparently caught this and sneered._

"_Well, brother," Thanatos answered, his eyes never leaving his opponent that was shielding the door behind which his child was just now being born with body. "It's really a shame that you are the oldest, and thus the Family Head. Especially when you're a blood traitor that doesn't even understand the fact the Mudbloods aren't people, but scum, fit for being slaves and whore, but nothing more." Upon hearing these words, rage burned his veins – his own wife was Muggle-born, god damnit!_

"_So you see, we've had enough of you fucking around, disregarding your pure-blood background and what comes with it." Saladin continued, his voice soft like Thanatos' was harsh, yet filled with the same malice. "With our fortune and tomes, we would crush the stupid Mudbloods to dust in an instant. And the only obstacle to our life-long goal is standing right in front of us." Both of them whipped up their wands in unison and bellowed: "__**Expulso!**__"_

_Knowing better that to stand there idly, he jumped aside into an alcove, as the spells whizzed past him. However, he was as lucky as he had hoped and one of the spells caught his on his left hand, ripping off two fingers and carrying them with it. His left hand seared in pain, completely distracting him from what was happening with the spells._

_As the two powerful Exploding Curses hit the incomplete blood ward, carrying the casters blood with them, all hell broke loose. Blood magic was extremely volatile, especially in an incomplete form. So when the curse hit, the ward glowed a sickly kind of green, Avada-Kedavra-like and absorbed the spell. Then, for a second nothing happened._

_Then the ward exploded._

_The force of the explosion was enough to slam him into the wall with tremendous force. It hurt like a bitch, even though the wall was somehow cushioned – probably an accidental reaction that saved his life._

_His two younger brothers had more luck than he had had, because their distance to the ward was greater, giving them more time to react. Only Thanatos was quick enough, however, to bring up a green shimmering shield. Saladin was hit full-force by the blast, which knocked him into a manor wall. There was sickening crunch and he dropped down to the floor, dead – his neck had snapped. Thanatos was only thrown back a few feet, his shield absorbing the biggest part of the shockwave._

_This was the last he registered, before everything went black._

* * *

><p><em>Upon awakening, he frantically searched for his wand among the rubble, until he found it a few seconds later, unharmed by the explosion. Quite suddenly, he felt cold dread and, fearful of what he would encounter, turned around, to face the room where his wife had been. Nothing stirred amongst the rubble, leading him to assume the worst. Still, he had to know for sure.<em>

_He tried to stand up, but found that he was far to dizzy to even attempt that. Therefore, half-stumbling, half-crawling, he made his way through the rubble to the remnants of the door. Steeling himself, he entered the room._

_The room had not been affected as strongly by the explosion as he would have thought – most of the explosive force had been forced outwards. However, all the windows had shattered, nevertheless. However, upon seeing the sight that he encountered in that room, he immediately wished himself to be back in the rubble again._

_The healer had been hit by an Entrail-Expelling Curse, causing her guts to spill all over the floor. Her kind blue eyes were filled with horror, shock and pain. She was naked, and there were cuts all over her body. A mixture of semen and blood was flowing from both her vagina and her anus, causing him to convulse, his last meal threatening to resurface. Just how long had he been out to give his brother the time to commit such atrocities?_

_His wife was also naked, with an even greater number of scars all over her body – the most prominent one was the inscription "Mudblood bitch" on her stomach, nearly five centimetres deep. Blood coated her body, far more than there would probably have been because of the wounds. Another close look at her body had provided the answer: his brother had used a spell to suck the blood from her veins, without harming her body and had coated her in it. He crept up towards her and one look at her mouth caught him to break down at last and to vomit across the floor – his brother had drowned her in her own blood._

_The last conscious thought that he had before falling unconscious once again was that it was kind of strange that the child's body was nowhere to be seen._

* * *

><p><em>When he came around once again, he cleared up the mess and buried the bodies respectfully, all the while mulling the mystery of the missing corpse of his child, until it finally hit him, two days later. Thanatos had been banished from the family – he had never found out the reason, but with the death of Saladin, he would never get his hands on the family fortune, even if both he and his child were dead. Unless-<em>

_Fuck. He didn't even need to get his hands on it._

_Thanatos wasn't after the money because of its monetary worth, but to use it to his ends – the war to exterminate all Mudbloods and blood-traitor, like him. And with his death, the fortune would fall into the hands of that child that Thanatos had kidnapped and raised, according to his ideals – a child that would, if Thanatos played his cards correctly, undoubtly fight his war for him. What did the time matter for him, anyway?_

_[END FLASHBACK]_

Sixteen minutes.

Shit. He shouldn't have gotten sidetracked. He needed to finish the potion before the wards fell. Luckily, the potions was nearly done – he only needed to add the last three ingredients, wait until they had dissolved and, as a final ingredient, add seven drops of blood. The reason why he hadn't finished earlier was that he wasn't sure what the three last ingredients should be.

You see, the potion that he had brewed, actually, that he had _invented_, was called the Bloodline Curse. Upon drinking it, the drinker cursed the bloodline of the person that had given their blood. It only worked with willingly given blood, however, so the possibility to use it as a weapon was rather slim. Basically, what the potion did was that it declared any kind of heirship to the cursed family null and void, until a person came along in this bloodline that would unify the three traits that the last three ingredients of the potion represent – therefore, the formula for the potion was not always identical, rather, more often than not, it was a rather large difference, because differences in the last three ingredients could also alter the procedure of the steps done beforehand, to enable the potion to work with these ingredients.

And because he hadn't left any notes behind, only a potions prodigy like him, and only under very lucky circumstances would be able to recreate this potion. It was one of a kind, really.

Fifteen minutes thirteen seconds.

Now then: what three personality traits should one of his descendants have to show, to be proclaimed worthy of their vast fortune and their gigantic vaults, full of gems, weapons and ancient tomes of knowledge?

A sense of equality and justice, for one. He absolutely despised the people that thought themselves better than others, simply because of their names or their blood status. His wife had been a Muggle-born herself and she could outmatch any of his three best friends in a duel anytime – proof enough that the preconceived notions of these people were not worth a shit.

He scanned his potion ingredients, until he had found what he had been looking for: a fang of a Twilight Wolf. The Twilight Wolf was a magical wolf was home both in light and in darkness and that was capable of both of the blackest and the lightest magics – possession of another animal as well as astounding healing capacities, and pretty much everything in between that could be classified as aura magic, the art of magic that is not dependant on a single spell, but that rather emanates from the aura of the caster and that is solely based on will and intent – possession took absolute hate, whereas healing required a real sense of love and kinship. Twilight Wolves were incredibly rare and he had been really lucky that he had once been able to save the cub of a Twilight Wolf from a pack of lethifolds, during his travel through the jungles of Africa. In gratitude, the mother wolf had shown him the body of her husband, that had died mere minutes beforehand and indicated that he should keep it. Placing it under a stasis charm, he had brought the dead body back home and had harvested it. He quickly placed the fang into the simmering cauldron, causing the potion of a brilliant red turn to a deep blue quickly, as the fang dissolved under hisses. He stirred until the fang had completely dissolved in the potion, before he could add the next ingredient.

Ten minutes forty-one seconds.

The second personality traits that a worthy descendant had to show, he decided, was intelligence, determination and cunning. To represent this trait, he chose the claw of a Thunder Hawk. These frightening predators had been the rulers of the sky, a long time ago. They were known as ruthless, cunning and intelligent, yet not unnecessarily cruel creatures. Their magical capacities were supposed to be vast, but there were next to no documents concerning the Thunder Hawks. The only thing that was quite certain was the fact that they could call upon the very power of lightning and unleash full-blown storms on their opponents at whim. This particular claw had been in his family for longer than anyone could remember, but no-one before him had ever actually found out what it was – they had simply assumed it to be a trophy of a hunt, never understanding the immense value of this artefact. It to, with a small twinge of regret, wandered into the potion and he stirred to make it dissolve. This took considerably longer than with the wolf fang, but eventually, it had dissolved too, leaving the potion a brilliant shade of very light blue, almost white.

Three minutes.

The last trait was relatively easy to think of: magical power. All of these traits were useless, if his descendant didn't have the magical power to act upon them and to, should it be necessary, change society accordingly (he had a very unpleasant feeling that it _would_ be necessary, seeing the path on which society was currently headed). After a short glimpse across his ingredients, however, he had to concede that none of these ingredients would probably fit his purpose.

Two minutes forty-nine seconds.

He sighed, coming to the conclusion that he had known all along, even though he didn't like it one bit. He quickly calmed his breathing and sunk into trance, being able to do so rather quickly because of his numerous hours of practice, until he found his magical core. It was rather large and a pleasant green, with darker and lighter patches all over it.

With another internal sigh, he began what would probably be the last magic of his life – with all his willpower, he siphoned his raw magic off his core, forcing it through his wand and into a ball of pure energy, leaving only very little behind to still be able to use a wand. It was a process that felt tiring and so _wrong, _but he ignored it. When he opened his eyes, feeling quite empty, he saw that nearly all of what had once been his core was now floating in front of his wand. Because he had been magically exhausted beforehand, he didn't feel any more exhausted than before, only strangely hollow (the floating ball didn't represent his reserves of magic, but what _potential_ he had, should his reserves be fully filled – he had diminished his _potential_ to a minimum, not his actual _store_ of magic). This would be the potential that his descendant had to reach, to be judged worthy as a heir of his bloodline.

Ever so slowly, he guided the orb down into the cauldron. The moment it touched the potion, it dissipated, flowing freely through the potion, infusing every drop of this potion with magical potential, dissolving in no time and turning the potion an angry green within seconds.

He sighed and reached out to the wards to find out the remaining time, but he couldn't feel them anymore. _FUCK!_ This could be serious problem – he was now not magically aware enough to be able to feel the wards, so he could only rely on an estimate of time for how long he had. Probably around a minute or so.

Quickly picking up his potions knife, he cut his thumb ever so slightly, allowing the blood to drop, not to flow freely. Even though, he was in an emotional turmoil, he still able to hold his hand steady – years of working on potions were now invaluable.

One drop of blood fell into the cauldron. There was an angry hiss and the potion darkened slightly.

Two drops.

Three drops. The potion was now a dark, lush green, like moss.

Four drops.

Five drops. The potion was now nearly black only liked slightly green when looking very carefully.

Six drops.

Seven drops.

The potion was finished. It was now a pure black, but it still seemed to be pulsing with magic. He quickly stirred it three more times, hoping that the time would be enough – he now had twenty seconds left, at best.

He pulled a vial out of his pocket and quickly filled it with the black potion. He hesitated for another brief moment, unsure of the reason himself, before raising the vial to his lips and downing it in one gulp.

Just as the last wards fell and the door to his potions lab was blown open, allowing a slender figure to enter the room. His son.

Even though he knew that his son was his enemy at the moment, he couldn't help but drink him in now, seeing him for the first time. He looked so much like him, with the striking green eyes and the black, elegant hair falling to his shoulders. He had his mothers delicate nose and her beautiful cheekbones, though his face was marred by scars – probably souvenirs of earlier raids or of his training under his uncle. His handsome mouth was twisted into a malevolent grin.

"_**Expelliarmus!**_" He intoned, disarming his magically weakened father easily and casually throwing the wand that he caught with his left hand aside, while twirling his wand in his right hand, just like Thanatos had done during his confrontation with his brother, all these years ago.

"Father." He sneered unpleasantly, causing him to flinch – he had never hoped to hear this word in such a tone. "What's the matter? Weakened because of all the Mudbloods you fucked?" His sneer turned even more unpleasant, if that was possible. "Wouldn't surprise me."

"What's your name?" His father asked wearily.

"Cephyr. Just like my noble grandfather." He proclaimed proudly, causing his father to wince. Cephyr had been one of the first and most radical propagators of pureblood supremacy, killing Muggle-borns in masses. He sighed – his son was truly long beyond redemption, if he was proud of the deeds that his namesake had done.

"Well, Cephyr, I'm pretty sure you're not here to exchange pleasantries." He said, feeling the potion spread through his blood already. He knew that the curse had taken effect already. He had done what he could and would now die.

Strange. He wouldn't have pegged himself as brave, but just now, in his final moments, he found out that he didn't fear death at all. He welcomed it, really. His life had been long – it was now time to depart.

"You're right, blood-traitor." Cephyr spoke. Then, with one last, unidentifiable look, he raised his wand.

"_**Avada Kedavra!**_"

And like a puppet, whose strings had been cut, Salazar Slytherin fell to the floor as everything went black.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Yeah, it's me, I'm back, and I'm continuing. The title's changed, 'cause it's not really about the cursed bloodline anymore at all. Reposting everything because there's minor to major edits in every chapter. Since it's been a while, just re-read everything, then you're back up to date again. :) So, what happened? Basically, I was completely stagnating, because I knew the end, but I had no idea how to get there. Not the case anymore, I swear, it's all planned out, beginning to end. Also, done with school, that's great. I still can't promise regular updates, but... I won't abandon this again. Pinky promise.


	2. Tom

**STORY INFORMATION**

**Name: **Puppeteers**  
>Author:<strong> BlackToWhite  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Graphic Violence, Bad Language

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 2 – Tom<strong>

„Fuck!"

Neville Longbottom was swearing heavily and had been doing so for quite a while now. If everyone else hadn't been preoccupied with what they were doing, this would have surely turned quite a few heads, for he was normally a quiet boy – not shy, at least not anymore – but he was rather someone that exuded confidence through a silent, calming presence – not someone who swore. However, everyone would have also conceded that he had a damn good reason for swearing.

The name of this reason was Antonin Dolohov, Inner Circle Death Eater.

Neville had trained long and hard during the past three years, ever since Bellatrix Lestrange had escaped Azkaban, along with many others but nothing could have prepared him for what it was like to fight someone else to the death. He had, up until now, only been part of one minor skirmish in Hogsmeade, but that had been over quickly, as the Death Eaters had been overpowered by Albus Dumbledore, the Headmaster of Hogwarts before it could have resulted into a fully-fledged battle. Plus, they had all been new recruits, therefore their skills could not be really be compared to one of Voldemort's twenty-five elite Death Eaters. Especially not Dolohov, whose duelling skills had been legendary in the First Wizarding War – it had been rumoured that he had killed more people than Voldemort himself.

Therefore, Neville thought that he was holding his own rather well, as he ducked under a blood-red curse that he had seen Dolohov use earlier in the battle – it looked like a very nasty version of the Cutting Jinx _Diffindo_, but since he had no idea what the hell it was, he wouldn't be going around trying to block it.

The problem was that even though he was, for his experience, holding his own remarkably well, Death Eaters didn't tend to care about that. And Dolohov was slowly, but surely battling him into a corner, smirking all the time, only using minimal wand movements – as though Neville wasn't worth his full concentration.

Not that he minded – even though it was infuriating and humiliating, Neville was rather sure that he would dead by now, had Dolohov taken him seriously.

"Shit." He muttered again, as Dolohov started another chain of spells.

Yes, this was definitely a day that warranted swearing.

* * *

><p>A few metres away from Neville, Hermione Granger was having similar problems. She was battling Alecto Carrow, another Inner Circle Member. Carrow was showing to be rather partial with fire spells, unleashing every kind of fire curse that Hermione knew of and many she didn't know of, short of Fiendfyre. Luckily Hermione was rather well-versed in duelling, having fought rather dirty with Draco Malfoy quite often, but this was still something different altogether. She was rather lucky that Alecto Carrow was one of the weaker Inner Circle members – she wouldn't have lasted a minute against Rabastan Lestrange – who was duelling Kingsley Shacklebolt a few feet behind her – or against Dolohov.<p>

"_Lancea Ignis!"_ Carrow had just hurled a fiery lance at her that would probably kill her impact – Hermione wasn't really keen on finding out, so she ducked to the side, casting a Banishing Charm at her opponent rather quickly and forcefully. Carrow, who hadn't suspected her retaliating this quick was caught unawares and flew – rather unceremoniously – into one of the marble walls of Gringotts, at the very least out cold, if not with a broken neck. This gave Hermione the chance to catch her breath again and to take a quick look around.

Despite the fact that the battle had only been going on for about ten minutes of so – time was really hard to estimate when fighting for your life – Diagon Alley was a mess. Most of the shops had been closed as soon as the first Death Eater had apparated in, but they were still rather damaged. _Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour _had been completely burnt, the charred corpse of the talented ice cream maker just sticking out under the debris that was still smouldering. Gringotts had also been locked and bolted rather quickly – Goblins didn't interfere in Wizarding affairs on principle.

All around her, many of her classmates were fighting the Death Eaters as well as they could, which was probably better than they had anticipated, due to the Defence Association that Neville Longbottom had founded during their third year when Voldemort had been on the move again, making himself known by busting his followers out of prison – including the person that Neville probably hated more than anyone else on the planet – Bellatrix Lestrange. This had, more than anything else, caused Neville to become the person that he was now.

Today was the Wednesday before the next school year, so naturally there had been quite a few Hogwarts students in the alley, buying school supplies for their next year of schooling. This was probably what the Death Eaters had anticipated when planning their attack – hit as many children as you can to make an impression. From a strategic point of view, Hermione had to admit that that wasn't really a bad idea – but then, nobody would say that Voldemort was stupid – and that it should have been expected, by increasing security in Diagon Alley or something. That schoolchildren had to pay the price of the government's incompetence was despicable, though, sadly, nothing new – the Ministry had proven to be wholly ineffective in the war that had been raging for two years now. Only the Order of the Phoenix got anything done at all and even that wasn't a lot.

All around Hermione, there were the dead and the injured and she was sure that she should probably be vomiting her stomach empty at the gory sight she was experiencing, but it somehow seemed surreal to her. Her eyes travelled the carnage a little more and she stumbled forwards, tasting the blood in the air consciously for the first time. She suddenly stumbled and looked at the ground, trying to find the cause of this. And she immediately wished she hadn't.

Lying on the ground was Wayne Hopkins, a year mate of hers from Hufflepuff. He had, she noticed with almost clinical distance, been hit by an Eye-Rupturing Curse and an Entrail-Expelling Curse and was barely even recognizable as a human. His intestines were draped over his face that was frozen in horror, his dead eyes forever pleading for mercy. She suddenly noticed that they formed the shape of penis on his corpse, which caused her snort softly.

A moment later she realized that she was either in shock or insane.

This was the last thing Hermione realized before she passed out.

* * *

><p>"<em>Sectumsempra!"<em>

Dolohov grinned like a maniac as the blood-red beam shot from his wand once more. This time, Neville was to slow to dodge and the spell his shoulders, immediately slicing it open. Blood was now flowing freely down Neville's left arm and he could barely move it – luckily, it wasn't his wand arm. Still, he was exhausted, aching all over and couldn't see correctly with his right eye because a flying rock had hit him just above it, creating a steady drip of blood right in front of his eye. And his condition wasn't about to get better, either.

It was now or never.

He gathered all his remaining strength and raised his wand to the sky, saying the one spell that he had stumbled across while reading, the warnings that had accompanied it flashing within his mind: it needed a huge amount of magical energy, it could kill or severely injure the caster and it was uncontrollable – it simply hit everyone, without distinction between ally or enemy. Still, it was the only spell that he knew that was not possible to be blocked by magical means, only by physical barriers, so it would at least hit Dolohov.

With these thoughts flashing through his mind, he brought his wand down like a hammer.

"_**MALLEUS MALEFICARUM!**_"

A shock wave of blue emanated from Neville, hitting the unsuspecting Dolohov squarely in the chest and sending him flying. Luckily for the Death Eater, though , his impact was somewhat softened by landing on the corpse of two eleven-year-old girls, but he was still out cold and probably had at least some broken bones.

Others were not so lucky.

Terry Boot and Michael Corner, two Ravenclaws, who were duelling a masked Death Eater less than two metres away were hit and were thrown against _Magical Menagerie_. Terry was rather lucky, because he hit a window, which broke and scraped him but at least lessened his speed considerably. Michael, however, was thrown straight against the concrete wall of the building, his neck breaking with a crack, his attacker sharing his fate.

A Ministry employee, who was losing rather badly against another masked Death Eater – probably Crabbe or Goyle Sr., judging from the body build – was also thrown through the air, directly into Amycus Carrow. Both of them went down, unconscious and rather battered, but – as far as Neville could see when quickly scanning the consequences of his desperate move – alive. The masked Death Eater had, surprisingly quickly, ducked behind a rather large chunk of concrete that had been blown out of the street.

Before Neville could continue his survey of his surrounding somehow, he felt something intimidating and powerful. And something very, very bad. When looking up while wiping blood and sweat from his eyebrows, his fears were confirmed.

Voldemort had arrived.

* * *

><p>Even though Voldemort looked rather normal, yes, even <em>handsome<em> with his aristocratic face, his black hair and his slender build and Neville had never met him personally before, there was no-one else who could radiate such evil, such a feeling of _wrong_.

The Dark Lord surveyed the battlefield with the hint of smile, seemingly not caring that all battle around him had halted.

"Well, well, well." Voldemort mocked, clapping his white hands together – a sound like thunderclaps in the sudden silence. "You fought valiantly – much better than I expected from a bunch of schoolchildren and a few Ministry officials, I must say."

A Ministry worker that Neville knew from somewhere but couldn't quite place whimpered rather loudly at that moment. Voldemort flicked his wand, shooting a Killing Curse at the man without even looking. He slumped to the ground as the curse hit.

"As I was saying, you fought better than expected. Not good enough to beat my Death Eaters, obviously, but you have potential. You have proven that by still being alive after fifteen minutes of battle – and by not running away from me like scared children, I suppose."

Voldemort surveyed the people standing around him, looking at him with glee and awe (Death Eaters) or fear with his red, gleaming eyes that clashed with his otherwise handsome face.

"Therefore, I'll make this easy for you."

Suddenly, the smile on the Dark Lord's face was gone and his expression became cold.

"Join me… or die."

Total silence was the reaction to these words. Then, after what felt like an eternity to Neville, a student from Ravenclaw – Peter Ashford, if he recalled correctly – stepped forward, to the shock of most of the people in the crowd. He nodded his head briefly to Voldemort when was only a few steps from him.

"My Lord, may I speak?" His voice didn't waver at all – it was impossible to read any emotions from it.

With a pensive look on his face, Voldemort made a careless hand gesture, prompting him to go ahead.

Suddenly, Ashford's entire demeanour changed, loathing written all over his face. He glared at Voldemort contemptuously for less than a second and, before the Dark Lord could do something, spat him in the face.

"My Lord, fuck you."

Even though it had been a highly stupid move that would probably result in a very painful death for Ashford, Neville had to admire the courage that he showed. He was also a little thankful, because if Ashford hadn't done that, he would have probably done something among those lines, if the silence had stretched on – and while Neville was prepared to die for what he believed in, there was a difference between that and doing something downright stupid.

As he contemplated this rather quickly, the crowd of people hold their breath as one, even the Death Eaters that were standing in the crowd watched their master with bated breath.

Voldemort just stood there for a few seconds, not moving a muscle. However, the rage was rolling off of him in waves so fast and thick that it was nearly palpable. He slowly raised his blood red eyes that were shimmering with power and stared directly at Ashford, who didn't flinch back from the gaze – something that Neville had trouble doing, even though it wasn't even directed at him.

"You dare to spit me in the face." Voldemort said, his tone cold and harsh.

"I do, my Lord." Ashford sneered at him, the sarcasm evident in his tone. Once again, Neville asked himself what Ashford had to gain from this suicidal action, but he came up blank. He didn't even really know the guy, only that he was a rather average student and that he was on the Ravenclaw Quidditch Team. He was a year younger than Neville, but almost as tall as he was. Nothing really extraordinary about him – expect that he had just insulted the most powerful Dark Lord of a few centuries and would doubtlessly die a very painful death very soon, that is.

It happened so fast that Neville didn't even see it – he was, however, sure that Voldemort had not moved. But suddenly Ashford was down on his knees, blood running from his nose that was oddly askew – Voldemort had evidently struck him with magic.

"You should respect your superiors." Voldemort drawled, twirling his whitish wand between his fingers.

"The hell I will." Ashford coughed blood, but still stared at Voldemort in defiance, who simply sighed, as though he were a child that was misbehaving and he would have to teach him some manners.

"You know…" He mused, rubbing his chin, while holding Ashford at wandpoint. "Dear Bella would probably just Cruciate you out of your mind for that." His eyes scanned the crowd and found Neville, whom he flashed a quick grin that caused his blood to boil, but he seemed rooted on the spot, unable to move a muscle below his neck. "I mean, it is certainly effective, I'll give her that." As if to prove his point, he silently cast a Cruciatus on the young Ravenclaw that was lying at his feet, who was suddenly flailing in agony. His face was crunched up – but he didn't scream, showing his enormous willpower once again. After half a minute or so, Voldemort lifted the curse.

"Th- that all you got, muzzerfugger?" Ashford slurred the words, blood running down his chin, but the meaning was clear. Voldemort, however, didn't curse him again, as Neville had though he would.

"No. No, it isn't." Voldemort grinned maliciously. "You see, I try to be… creative when doling out punishment. Skinning alive, cutting out internal organs, torching loved ones in front of them… it certainly encourages creativity."

"Fascinating." Ashford drawled in the most obnoxious manner that he could while spitting blood.

"While furthering my spell collection for moments such as these, I just recently came across a new spell that I would like to try… I'd tell you what it is. Unfortunately, it's Parseltongue, so you won't be able to understand it anyway, but the gist of it is that it is kind of a spell version of the Dementor's Kiss."

Upon hearing this, Ashford's face showed fear for the first time, but he quickly suppressed it. However, Neville had seen it and, judging by the triumphant look on the Dark Lord's face, he had as well.

"Ah, I see that you know what this entails." He paused for a moment. "Good. That makes this so much more entertaining." He chuckled darkly. "I'd let you stew in your fear for a few hours, but I've got things to do." He grinned at Ashford, who stared at him stubbornly. "Therefore… bid your soul goodbye."

Voldemort slowly raised his wand and started to – well, Neville would call it "hissing", though it sounded like a chant to those fluent in Parseltongue. As he progressed doing this, the air grew steadily colder and clammier, exactly like a Dementor and what looked like a whisp of white smoke slowly rose from Ashford's chest towards Voldemort's wand, who seemed completely unaffected by the chill. The young Ravenclaw's soul was sucked closer and closer towards Voldemort's wand and with each inch that it moved, Peter Ashford's eyes grew more lifeless.

However, just before his soul could enter the Dark Lord's wand, something akin to a miracle happened: a sharp and soft hiss resounded from behind the crowd that was watching the lobotomy of Peter Ashford ashen-faced and the spell broke off. The warmth returned to the air, just like Ashford's soul to its rightful owner. The moment that his soul re-entered his body, Ashford coughed blood again, right onto Voldemort's robe. However, the Dark Lord's interest was elsewhere at the moment – it was fixed upon the person that was standing behind the crowd.

The person that had interrupted his spell.

The person that had spoken Parseltongue.

* * *

><p>He was tall, thin and had short, unruly black hair. He was dressed in Muggle clothing: blue, worn-out jeans with a few holes in them, a black hoodie that depicted the cover of Metallica's <em>Master of Puppets<em> and black sneakers. Sunglasses completed his outfit.

However, despite his Muggle appearance, he was obviously magical – he was not only holding a wand, but power was rolling off him in spades in a comforting way that reminded Neville of the song he had heard Fawkes sing once. When he saw the Death Eaters cringe, he knew that it had the same effect that Phoenix song had – it comforted those on the Light side and injected fear into the hearts of those that are evil, as it said in his Care of Magical Creatures textbook. Voldemort, curiously, didn't flinch, but he did eye the new arrival with a healthy amount of wariness. However, when he spoke, he exuded only confidence.

"Who are you that dares to cross wands with the great Lord Voldemort? In the noble tongue of Salazar Slytherin, no less." Try as he might, he couldn't quite hide his surprise upon discovering another Parselmouth, other than himself.

"Why should I tell you?" The other smirked.

"Because it will be very painful if you don't." Voldemort growled, raising his wand threatingly.

"I'm scared." For good measure, he added a yawn after that which only enraged the Dark Lord further.

"_**CRUCIO!"**_

Voldemort shot the Unforgivable at the young man with surprising speed and agility. However, he was nowhere quick enough. Within the blink of an eye, the newcomer had summoned a piece of debris in front of the curse that dissipated upon impact, causing the him to snicker.

"You'll have to do better than that, though." He chided Voldemort mockingly. "However - " He held up his hand to stop Voldemort to curse him again. "- before it gets violent… you can call me Tom."

Something about this sentence seemed to incense the Dark Lord like nothing before and he started firing a series of Dark curses at person who called himself 'Tom', most of which Neville did not recognize – he could only recognize the sickly green of the Killing Curse at least twice – which was a bit of an overkill, since any of these curse would have probably killed on impact anyway.

However, none of them hit.

'Tom' evaded each and every curse with a grace that Neville had never witnessed before – he jumped, ducked, dodged, pirouetted his way around every single curse that his opponent had fired, all the while grinning like mad. It was this grin that lead Voldemort to perform a move that probably no-one had expected.

"_**MALEDICTO INFERNUM!"**_

Neville and a few others in the crowd, who had recognized the incantation, gasped as hellish fire broke free from Voldemort's wand, forming a gigantic snake – a basilisk – that looked ready to cook 'Tom' alive. Before it could come even close to him, though, 'Tom' had waved his wand too, mumbling an incantation Neville couldn't quite hear.

Just as with Voldemort, a huge snake erupted from his wand. This one, however, was made of water – holy water, if the incantation was anything to go by. And, as incredible as it was, the water snake seemed to be winning. The hellish basilisk was fighting it with all that it had, but the water snake was simply bigger and it encircled it from all sides, ruthlessly squashing it until it extinguished.

As both the elemental snakes had disappeared, both of the duellists were panting heavily, though Neville though that Voldemort was panting harder (though it might have been wishful thinking). Once he had regained his breath, he shot him a dark look.

"You haven't seen the last of me, Mudblood. We will meet again – and then you'll pay." And with these words, he disappeared in a swirl of black. The wards that had separated the crowd and him, 'Tom' and a now unconscious Ashford, that Neville noticed just now, flickered and faded out of existence, while 'Tom' seemed unable to call something after Voldemort.

"He calls me Mudblood? Oh, that's rich!" And Neville couldn't help but fight a grin as the infectious laughter of their saviour echoed through the street.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note: <strong>Quick rundown on the non-canon spells used here:

_Lancea Ignis _- Spear of Fire (Latin, used an online translator)

_Malleus Malleficarum _- from "The Rise of the Gray Lord" by _TheDarkestAngel16 _(s/2091668)

_Maledicto Infernum - _from "Harry Potter and the Hand of Judgement" by _Shadows of Vanity _(s/7077718)

Anyway, not much edited here, just a few grammar errors and the like.


	3. Aftermath

**STORY INFORMATION**

**Name: **Puppeteers**  
>Author:<strong> BlackToWhite  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Graphic Violence, Bad Language

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 3 – Aftermath<strong>

The moment that Voldemort disapparated, the world seemed to turn again, as though someone had flicked on a switch. While Voldemort had magnanimously talked to the people surrounding him, everyone had watched him with bated breath, Death Eaters, children, Ministry workers and civilians alike. Now, though, he was gone and the spell was broken. The Death Eaters that were standing among the students and adults suddenly realized that the man standing in front of them could probably beat them all in a duel – he had forced their Lord to retreat, after all – and even if that had only been luck, the Death Eaters weren't really keen on testing that theory. The more intelligent ones (though this was a relative term, concerning Death Eaters) apparated away – Rabastan and Rodolphus Lestrange, who had lead the raid, along with a few others, including a very tall, whispy guy who had picked up Dolohov's unconscious form before disappearing.

Three Death Eaters remained – whether because they were stupid, overconfident, simply slow or a mixture of all of the above, no-one knew. However, when they saw that they were now on their own, with their colleagues disappearing out on them, they knew that they were in trouble.

One tried to disapparate, but 'Tom' had seemingly put up an Anti-Apparation ward after the large wave of Death Eaters had escaped. The result was that the would-be escapee suddenly found himself hanging upside-down in a thin yet unbreakable net that had appeared from nowhere.

Another Death Eaters simply gave up and surrendered his wand to the next Auror, the dark-skinned Kingsley Shacklebolt, who was bleeding from a gash on his cheek and his lower lip.

The third Death Eater, however, did something rather desperate, which was a rather good idea – he took an unconscious, very young girl as a hostage, holding her at wandpoint when Aurors started advancing on him. The problem with this was, as anyone who has taken a hostage already will tell you, that he was encircled by his opponents and couldn't carry out his threat to kill the girl, because he didn't even seen the Stunner approaching that hit him in the back of his head, courtesy of an Auror with sleek black hair that was slightly chubby, knocking him to the ground. Interestingly enough, the girl that he chose to take was dead already, but nobody had known that, not even the Death Eater himself.

From the moment on that danger had been defeated and everyone realized that it was over, pandemonium reigned, possibly even worse than during battle. Everyone was trying to find his or her relatives, hoping that they had survived the bloody attack. All around him, as he was looking for his grandmother, Neville saw both people crying over dead bodies and those that had survived joyously embracing.

There... was that... _Luna?_ Nope, impossible, he thought, she can't be dead, probably just looks like her, hm, yeah that's it. Neville forced himself onward.

He finally found Augusta Longbottom under the dead body of a Death Eater that he didn't know. She was bleeding heavily from a wound on her head, but she was alive, as Neville quickly found out when checking her pulse.

"She'll be alright." Neville spun around when he heard the voice of his saviour, who was standing behind him, looking oddly defeated, considering that he had just driven Voldemort away.

"Are you sure?" Neville asked, hating how whiny he sounded, but he just needed to know – his grandmother, even though she was strict at times, had always been there for him and he simply needed confirmation that she would be okay.

"Oh yes." 'Tom' said with a small, yet friendly smile on his lips. "Healing magic isn't really what I specialize in, but I am capable of at least identifying life-threatening situations." Neville nodded gratefully, for some reason feeling oddly relaxed after hearing these words, even though he barely knew the guy that was talking to him. They watched each other for a while, Neville not quite knowing what he should say. Finally, when the feeling of being scrutinized by someone this powerful, had gotten too intense to ignore, Neville spoke up.

"Thanks for saving… well, us." He said, somewhat in a rush. 'Tom' smiled.

"No problem. You're lucky that I was in Diagon Alley today – most of you were being pushed back rather severely. Although -" He paused for a moment. "You seemed to be holding you own rather well." Neville blushed, while 'Tom' grinned, before becoming serious again. "Just like a bushy haired girl a few feet behind you – at least, until she fainted."

"Is Hermione all right?" Neville asked again, feeling slightly guilty that he hadn't even thought about his best friend yet. And hating the fact that he sounded whiny – again. He tried to put up a strong façade, but he couldn't keep it up while worrying for his bushy-haired friend.

"Relax, Neville." 'Tom' said. "You've just had a pretty huge battle – it's okay to lose your cool for a second." Neville nodded, not fully convinced, but at least somewhat placated that his saviour didn't think of his reaction as a sign of weakness, because weak was the one thing that he never wanted to be – from the moment on that he had heard of what had happened to his parents, he had known that he had wanted to be strong to be able to protect the people that he cared about (those that were left, anyway). Only when he had stomached this, however, did he notice something rather peculiar.

"How do you know my name?" Neville asked, wary of the black-haired figure in front of him again. It was rather unlikely that he harboured any ill intent towards him – he had driven off Voldemort and, if that were not enough, he had shown no signs of aggression – he could have cursed him in the back, anyway – but in times of war, it never hurt to be careful.

"Your parents… were good friends of mine." 'Tom' said carefully. This didn't really answer the question at all, even though it was an interesting fact, because Neville had no idea who this person could be and he had heard a lot about his parent's friends from his grandmother, so he opened his mouth to probe on. However, before he could utter a word, the face of 'Tom' turned cold while gazing over Neville's shoulder, harbouring malice that caused Neville to shudder, even though he knew that it was not even aimed at him. Wishing nothing more than to escape the feeling that this iciness was creating within him (and because he was curious as to what had caused such a transformation within 'Tom'), he turned around.

However, what he saw, didn't really make any sense, because he was staring at the Leader of the Light, Albus Dumbledore himself. Why would someone that clearly opposed the dark hate him? However, before he could even begin to contemplate to ask why the aging Headmaster of Hogwarts created such ire within his saviour, he heard a mumbled "Motherfucker" that sounded as though it was pressed through an impossibly thin space between gritted teeth and the telltale pop of apparition.

'Tom' had disappeared without a trace.

* * *

><p>Albus Dumbledore was not having a good day.<p>

No, make that a bad day in a relatively calm week of a rather calm month of a disastrous year.

Ever since Voldemort's return nearly five years ago, he hadn't had a day that he would call even remotely relaxing. He was constantly worrying about what Voldemort would do next, and when it would happen – even though he had a spy within his ranks, Voldemort nearly always kept his plans close to his chest, only unveiling them the moment that they were about to come into fruition – this was probably the result of a few failed attacks in 1992, that Dumbledore had found out about via his spy, Severus Snape. And even though the Dark Lord didn't seem to suspect Severus' involvement, it had caused him to become even more reclusive.

This didn't suit Dumbledore at all, and not only because he wasn't getting any useful information from Severus, but because Voldemort tended to be working on something big and very deadly whenever he became that way. And, according to Severus' reports, he had become even more distant during the last two weeks.

The upside of this was that few attacks were really happening, but Dumbledore knew perfectly well that it was just the calm before the storm – a storm that would probably be deadly on a large scale.

Especially with the only hope of the light side having disappeared years ago.

Of course, few people knew that – it would be a far more crippling blow to their morale than any loss could ever be – but Dumbledore knew it, and one could see that this knowledge was not easy on him. Every day, the man that had once been lively and full of energy would become a little more gloomy, pondering the possible depravities that his foe would soon enact for hours.

He hated feeling this helpless – he had no idea where Voldemort was hiding, and even if he had, he wouldn't be able to defeat him – that much had been prophesized – he hated it above anything else. Contrary to common belief, Dumbledore would have loved to take action against Voldemort, but unfortunately Voldemort was the one that would act and he could only react – too late in most cases.

He was even ready to tell the prophecy to go screw itself and try to off Voldemort himself, but he knew that that train had left. If he had done it earlier, without concentrating on the prophecy, he might have succeeded. But as of now, he was clearly aging, while Voldemort was at the pinnacle of his power, thanks to his (relative) youth and his power-enhancing rituals. Sometimes, he was sorely tempted to curse Sybill for delivering that wretched prophecy, but he knew that she was simply the means, not the source. It wouldn't do any good.

And on top of that, something was telling him that this day would become even worse. He couldn't explain it, but he had a strange feeling in his gut that told him that today would surely bring bad news.

Therefore, Albus Dumbledore wasn't even really surprised when Kingsley Shacklebolt's head appeared in his fireplace – oh sure, he didn't know what he would tell him, but he was sure that it would be bad, just he had anticipated.

"Albus! Diagon Alley is a bloody massacre!" Kingsley spat out, blood seeping from a cut in his cheek. Dumbledore swore in Mermish (as he always did – nobody really understood it, which was a definite plus), cursing himself for not thinking of such an obvious target, especially on a – Oh dear god no. There were schoolchildren there and if there was one thing that Dumbledore took seriously, it was the safety of the children of his school. Pushing down his anger, he turned to Kingsley, who was still talking, his face a stoic mask.

"Voldemort himself was there and he nearly killed a student, when someone turned up and battled Voldemort away. I've never seen anyone fight like that!" Kingsley proclaimed before spitting blood. "Come through, I have to leave. There are tons of people that want to use the Gringotts Floo." With these words, Kingsley bald head disappeared, leaving behind something that was rare these days: Albus Dumbledore with a genuine smile on his face.

Somebody had appeared that was powerful enough to battle Voldemort and he had a gut feeling – or was that simply a hope? - that he knew who this someone was.

Maybe hope wasn't completely gone after all.

* * *

><p>This feeling of elation vanished rather quickly – to be precise, the moment that Dumbledore appeared on the battlefield of Diagon Alley, amidst the corpses that once had been his students. A tear found its way to his eyes, but he suppressed it – no matter how gruesome the scene was, he had to be strong – if he crumbled, the Light would follow, whether he liked it or not. Besides, he wanted to meet the person that had, according to Kingsley, single-handedly battled Voldemort away, and he didn't want to cry while doing that, because it tended to mar the first impression quite a bit – Dumbledore didn't really that much care for his reputation, but if he was about to talk to who he thought that he was about to talk to, then he didn't want to appear weak, because that wouldn't lead him anywhere.<p>

He quickly surveyed what was left of Diagon Alley, forcing himself to stay clinical and to not react to the carnage all around him, all the while trying to find the mysterious saviour that Kingsley had talked about (and about whom almost everyone around him talked as well), until his eyes came to rest on a youth that was facing in his direction, but not looking at him directly. He seemed to be talking to Neville Longbottom while Dumbledore looked at him closely.

He was rather tall and dressed in black (when seeing the pullover that he wore, Dumbledore had to fight his subconscious to stay on track, because it started reminiscing the times of _Master of Puppets, _ back then when Metallica were still good). His hair was pitch-black and rather messy, though not as messy as he would have thought it to be (if the person was indeed he who the Headmaster of Hogwarts presumed him to be). His eyes were hidden behind sunglasses, something that Dumbledore found rather intriguing, because wizards had other ways to shield their eyes from the sun. Of course, it might merely be because he found it fashionable, but maybe he was trying to hide something – like a pair of memorable green eyes? Dumbledore didn't know it was simply wishful thinking, but his theory seemed to get more likely by the minute and hope welled up within again –

Only to die again, just as quickly – for the moment that the youth noticed the aging wizard, his face turned remarkably cold and he disappeared from the Alley.

Strangely enough, Dumbledore wasn't sure whether this was good or bad news – of course, now he couldn't talk to him, but it pretty much confirmed his identity, because Dumbledore was rather sure that he would harbour a serious grudge against him, and not without reason, too. Still, he had appeared again, after having been missing for five years and he had opposed Voldemort, which was certainly not as bad as Dumbledore had feared.

With these thoughts in his head, Dumbledore strode over to Neville, who was looking at his Headmaster with a calculating look on his face, while he strode across to him.

When Dumbledore had crossed the distance between him and the young Gryffindor, he nodded towards him with respect – even though talk between them had been scarce in the past, Dumbledore was thoroughly impressed with the confidence that Neville exuded and the way that he influenced his peers, even if he did so without actually trying to do so – the Defence Association was good example of that.

"Hello Neville." Dumbledore greeted him with the friendly yet compassionate voice that he had perfected over the years (not that he didn't feel for the young boy who had just been in a terrible battle, but the first real piece of good news made him feel strangely elated, something that he did not want to convey). "I hope that you are okay."

"I am, sir. Nothing that a few hours in the infirmary won't fix. However -" Neville cut over Dumbledore who had opened his mouth to speak, which was rather unusual for the shy boy, so Dumbledore didn't protest. "I'm worried about my grandmother. Could you please - " He didn't finish the sentence, but it was clear what he wanted to say.

Dumbledore gazed down at the unmoving body of his, he dare say, friend, that he, to his eternal shame, had just noticed now. She was bleeding from a wound on her head, which Neville had stopped partially with a conjured cloth, but she was evidently breathing. He was pretty sure that it wasn't really that bad – Augusta Longbottom was a fighter, after all – but he didn't want Neville to become riled up, so he cast the Portus Charm on a coin in his pocket and pressed it into the hand of the unconscious Lady Longbottom, who promptly vanished to the Hogwarts Infirmary.

"She'll be alright." Dumbledore said quietly to Neville. "She's nothing if not a fighter. She'll only come out of this even more determined." He smiled and Neville, despite himself, had to grin as well. However, his face turned serious again.

"I suspect that you want to find out about our saviour." Dumbledore nodded.

"If you're ready to tell me about him, that would be very helpful. That might help us identify him." Of course, Dumbledore knew of his identity already, with near certainty, but he didn't want to raise any false hopes just now, should he be wrong.

"It's okay." Neville said, steeling himself to retell the tale. Dumbledore saw this and gently touched Neville's shoulder.

"We can go somewhere else if you wish to." Neville looked around him, then he nodded.

"That sounds like a good idea. But I need to check on Hermione first. He said that she's okay, but I want to make sure." Dumbledore had a fairly good idea who Neville meant with "he", but he didn't ask for confirmation just yet.

"That's natural. I will look over everything while you check on Ms. Granger, all right? When you are done, please join me." Neville respectfully nodded, then made his way through the crowd, while Dumbledore simply stood there, staring into space.

* * *

><p>"Neville, do sit down." Dumbledore gestured to a chair in front of his desk, looking tired and old – the talks that he had had with the relatives and friends of those had died today had been – as always – horrible, to say the least. Yet, Dumbledore felt that it was his duty to do so, especially if the victims were school children, so he always did so, when there were casualties – which was far too often, now that they were at war. Sometimes he wished that the pain would lessen, but it never did – which was probably something good in the long run, because he didn't want to become cold and unfeeling.<p>

While this was going on within Dumbledore, Neville tentatively sat down. He had never been in Dumbledore's office before and he stared at the silver gadgets, the portraits and the beautiful phoenix on his golden perch in awe. After a longer period of silence, he spoke up, beginning to tell his story to his headmaster.

"I was shopping for school supplies with Hermione – we had met at the Leaky Cauldron, from where her parents left to work. We had just left Flourish and Blotts when Death Eaters apparated in, raising an Anti-Apparation ward behind them, I think. I'm pretty sure that one person tried to disapparate, but I could be wrong." Neville shrugged.

"That's alright. Go on." Dumbledore nodded gently.

"Anyway, I was in battle against Dolohov and losing fast. I mean, I knew that the Inner Circle Death Eaters were skilled, but… I guess I never really knew what that meant." Dumbledore nodded – Dolohov really was one hell of a dueller, almost on par with Flitwick, which was saying something.

"Therefore…" Here, Neville broke off. How could he explain to the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot that he had used an illegal spell that could have harmed comrades of his?

"What did you do?" Dumbledore asked Neville. Sure, he could have simply invaded his mind, but he didn't like to do that, even though he would do it if needed.

"I… used the Malleus Maleficarium spell."

Okay, that definitely wasn't what Dumbledore had expected. He hesitated. "… Unorthodox, though I understand why you acted the way you did." He didn't tell Neville that Michael Corner had died as a result of the spell, as far as he had been able to discern – the poor boy didn't need that kind of burden. Though he probably wouldn't lie if Neville asked outright. "I think we can sidestep punishment for using that curse this once." He said, slowly and deliberately, which made Neville breathe out a sigh of relief.

"Thank you, sir. Now, where was I? Ah yes, the curse hit Dolohov and he went unconscious, I think. I doubt that he's dead." 'Pity.' Neville mentally added. "That was pretty much the moment that Voldemort arrived."

Dumbledore sat up a little straighter. This was the part that truly interested him.

"When he arrived, pretty much all action halted on the battlefield. I think Voldemort cast a curse that made us unable to use any limbs, but it wouldn't have made much of a difference for me anyway, as weak as I was at that moment – the battle with Dolohov had cost me quite a bit of strength."

"Understandable. Dolohov is indeed a formidable opponent." Dumbledore said, though he instantly regretted it, because it sounded insincere, like a weak try to lift Neville's spirits – even though it was true. Neville gazed at his headmaster shortly, then shook his head and carried on.

"He held a short speech which can be summarized to 'join me or die'. Then he looked at us expectantly and one person did move." Dumbledore tensed. He hoped that nobody had switched sides, but then nobody had mentioned anything about that while he had been talking with different people. However, most people had been too frightened to give him more than a very rough picture of what had happened – which was why Neville's report was rather important to him.

"It was… what was his name? Ashford, I think. A boy from Ravenclaw." Neville said, trying to remember the name that eluded him.

"Do you mean Peter Ashton?" Dumbledore asked Neville, who nodded emphatically.

"Exactly, that's him. Well, he walked up to Voldemort – he had probably freed him when he had thought that he would join him – and asked him if he could speak. When he gave him permission, Ashton insulted him and spat at him." Dumbledore held his breath – not many people had the courage to do that and he was currently at loss as to why Ashton would do something so drastic. As far he knew, Ashton didn't really have a connection to Voldemort or the Death Eaters at all, so why would he do something that suicidal? This was something that he should look into.

"Voldemort was not pleased." Neville said, shuddering as he remembered the malicious aura as well as the look on Voldemort's face that complimented it, when this incident had occurred. "He then told Ashton that he would be performing a spell on him, which was the equivalent to the Dementor's Kiss." He purposely let out Voldemort personal taunt of himself, though he wasn't entirely sure why.

Dumbledore gasped when he heard this. Rumours of this spell had been floating around for ages – it was supposedly one of the three Unholy Curses, which were something like the Holy Trinity of Black Magic, that made the Unforgivables look like child's play. Not much was known about this spell and even less about the other two, but if Voldemort had acquired it, then this was a disaster. However, before Dumbledore could fully contemplate the implications, Neville carried on – it seemed to help him to be able to tell the story of the day's events to someone.

"That's when he turned up." Once again, it was perfectly clear who 'he' was, both to story teller and audience. "I have no idea where he came from, but he was suddenly there and he spoke the counter to the spell. In Parseltongue, I think."

"Why do you think that?" Dumbledore enquired.

"Well, I couldn't understand anything, but Voldemort had cast the spell in Parseltongue – that's what he said before casting it, that he would tell us the name, but we wouldn't understand it anyway – so it's probably a logical conclusion."

Dumbledore nodded – this further lent evidence to his theory concerning the identity of the saviour. But then –

"Hold on. Did you say that he countered the spell?" Dumbledore was suddenly sitting very straight in his chair – he had never heard anything about a counter of the Unholy Curses, on the contrary, they were supposed to be uncounterable.

"Uhmm… yes, he did. Why is that so strange?"

"Never mind." Dumbledore answered, his mind still elsewhere, while telling Neville to continue with a wave of his hand. Neville looked rather put out, but continued anyway.

"He and Voldemort exchanged a few words, until Voldemort got mad when he didn't want to answer a question that he had posed – I think it was a question about his name. However, he countered it somehow – I think he summoned a rock or something in the path of a Cruciatus." Dumbledore nodded, though being surprised. To be able to summon a rock at that speed and with that high amount of accuracy was – well, not unheard of, but not a very common skill.

"Then, the guy introduced himself as 'Tom', but it was evident that wasn't his real name."

"Excuse me?" Dumbledore literally jumped from his chair when hearing this – how could the saviour of Diagon Alley know of Voldemort's true identity? "He said that he was called Tom? Are you sure, Neville?" He knew that he sounded somewhat agitated – which he was – and a tad disbelieving, but he didn't care at the moment.

"Uhmm… yes, sir, I did. What does that mean?" Neville said, looking at his Headmaster as though he had gone insane. When Dumbledore didn't reply, he prodded on. "The name means something to you, just like it did to Voldemort." The fact that Neville seemed to be continuing his story brought Dumbledore back to earth at least a little, though his mind was still constantly on overdrive – how could someone know this truly well-guarded secret?

"It does mean something to me, Neville. And I imagine that it would mean something to Voldemort." Dumbledore murmured, though Neville could still understand him. He stayed silent for a moment, then he raised his head again. "I imagine that Voldemort didn't react favourably." Neville pondered for a moment whether he should continue prodding to find out the significance of this name, but he relented again.

"Indeed he did. He went completely ballistic and started to firing curses like a maniac, but 'Tom' dodged them all, moving faster than I had ever seen." He took a deep breath and drunk some tea that Dumbledore had made while he had been talking before continuing. "When Voldemort saw that it didn't really work, he changed his tactics. He… he conjured Fiendfyre."

Unlike previous information, this didn't really shock the aging wizard – Voldemort had shown an affinity to fire-based spells during the First War, and his control seemed to have gotten even better since he had returned. According to Severus, it was actually quite common for him to kill and torture people with Fiendfyre (his control had gotten so good that he had been able to encircle people with the hellish fire from which the damned souls called out long enough to drive them insane, without the fire doing as much as damaging their clothing). What, however, surprised Dumbledore was that he had seen none of the tell-tale signs of Fiendfyre at the scene. But that had to mean –

"'Tom' the performed a spell that I had never even heard of before. I don't really remember the incantation, but it created a snake, just like Voldemort did. This one was made of water, though. I'd guess that it was Holy Water, if it had even a remote chance against Fiendfyre." Somehow, even though this was a feat that was nearly unheard of, it failed to surprise Dumbledore much – he had heard so many surprising things during the last twenty minutes that he had simply resigned himself to it being the truth, illogical or not – he could tell that Neville was telling the truth, so he knew that it was true (to Neville at least, but then Neville had shown himself to be rather observant in the past, so it was rather reliable, Dumbledore thought).

"Anyway, the water snake battled Voldemort's snake down, which Voldemort didn't seem to be expecting." This was similar to what Albus thought as well: if Voldemort had one fault (aside from his evil tendencies, obviously), it was his arrogance.

"And then Voldemort disapparated?" Dumbledore asked. Neville nodded.

"He looked, well, not exhausted per say, but more so than 'Tom' did. He was probably not prepared for someone that powerful, I'd say, because I doubt that he would have become the most feared Dark Lord of all times if that were his limit."

"I concur. If he went in there expecting no resistance, then he probably had a different mindset. He's probably trying to gather information on him right now." Dumbledore surmised, looking thoughtful, while Neville was likewise lost in thought.

"Oh yes, I nearly forgot!" Neville exclaimed. "I don't really know what it means, but maybe you do. When Voldemort apparated out, he called 'Tom' a Mudblood." Neville winced – even though he simply used the word in a description, he still hated it. It just sounded wrong. "Anyway, when Voldemort apparated out, 'Tom' started to laugh and said that it was rich that Voldemort was calling him a – well, that."

Okay, that meant that 'Tom' had serious insight into Voldemort – not only did he know his name, which he could have found out somewhere (though that was seriously unlikely) – but he knew of his descent – something which he could have sworn only he and Voldemort himself knew of. Though this supported his theory of identity further, because when he had held the child, back in 1981, he had known that there had been a connection between him and Voldemort – another reason for him to further believe in the prophecy.

"What did he tell you when he talked to you?" Dumbledore asked carefully – he didn't want to pry into Neville's privacy too much, but he had to know if Neville had – even subconsciously – picked up something that could help him confirm his theory on the identity of the saviour or of his whereabouts.

Neville, however, simply shrugged. "Not much. He just assured me that my grandma was okay. He said that he knew a life threatening situation when he saw one, even though healing wasn't exactly his forte. Oh, and he said that… his parents knew mine." The last part was barely above a whisper, but Dumbledore understand Neville nevertheless. It saddened him to see such longing in Neville's eyes, but he couldn't do anything about it. Except –

"Sir? Do you know who he was?" Neville asked, sounding a little hopeful, no matter how much he tried to act nonchalant. Dumbledore sighed, having expected this question. He didn't want the public to know of his suspicions, but then Neville was a rather private person. And he had fought valiantly, something that Dumbledore always knew the worth of.

"I have my suspicions, yes." He said, although he knew that Neville would not be content with this answer. He sighed again, then he decided to trust the young man with this item of information. He only hoped that he wasn't making a grave mistake.

"I think that it was Harry Potter."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's<strong> **Note: **Added the Luna situation, 'cause that will be important later, as will the total non-acceptance of her death.**  
><strong>


	4. Down Memory Lane

**STORY INFORMATION**

**Name: **Puppeteers**  
>Author:<strong> BlackToWhite  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Graphic Violence, Bad Language

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 4 – Down Memory Lane<strong>

Harry Potter, was, just like the man who had one day hoped to be Harry's mentor, having a bad day. The difference to Dumbledore's bad day was that he didn't really have anyone to blame except for himself.

While he was walking through the corridors of Number Twelve, Grimmaulf Place, he was cursing himself again and again, because in his hot-headedness he had done what he had hoped to avoid for quite a while more: he had revealed himself.

Oh, sure, he hadn't told anyone his name, but he was sure that Dumbledore, at least, would be able to figure it out, crafty bastard he was. And though Dumbledore would probably keep it rather quiet – at first, anyway – Dumbledore was, after all, the person that had caused him to go into hiding, that fateful day five years ago…

_[FLASHBACK]_

"_Good evening, Mr. Hagrid…" Harry spun around as he heard a voice that was barely a whisper yet easily carried through the small and, in Harry's opinion, entirely too stacked shop – one couldn't even see the windows because of the masses of wand boxes! – a voice that reminded Harry of the silky voice that he had heard in a vampire movie that Dudley had watched once, a voice that was soft, but instantly conveyed that the individual was far from it._

"…_ah, and Mr. Potter." The person concluded the moment that Harry had spun around fully._

_This had to be Mr. Ollivander. Harry was rather glad that Hagrid had warned him that Mr. Ollivander was 'a strange guy', though that didn't cover it in Harry's opinion. But then, Hagrid hadn't shown himself to be the most observant person or the most eloquent person, Harry though rather bitterly. He had proven that when he had delivered Harry to Privet Drive, only for him to be left there on a doorstep, something that Aunt Petunia loved to mention when she felt the need to lower Harry's self-esteem – which was pretty much all the time. Anyone who was even the slightest bit observant would __**not**__ leave child on a doorstep in the winter._

_Harry pushed these bitter thoughts from his mind when Ollivander started gazing at him with his white, empty eyes that gave Harry the impression that he was blind._

"_Mr. Potter, I remember like it was only yesterday that your parents entered this shop to purchase their very first wands. You look remarkably like your father, though your eyes are entirely those of your mother."_

"_Yeah, thanks. I know that, so far I've been told like twenty-one times. So could we please skip the tête-à-tête and get down to business." Harry's words came out harsher than he had intended, but he was still rather angry because of what he had discovered earlier. Not the fact that the Dursleys had lied to him – he had always at least subconsciously known that his parents hadn't died as a result of a car crash, but because of something far more sinister – but the fact that the Headmaster of the very school that he would be heading to had placed him in the abusive hands of his relatives when he had just saved the world. Not that he wanted any fame for that, but it pissed him off big-time that people had been revering him for the past ten years (as the encounter in the Leaky Cauldron had shown), yet the person that had supposedly been responsible for his well-being had left him in the hands of pretty much the worst that the planet had to offer - because really, anyone who bothered to investigate even the slightest bit would find out that Petunia had hated her sister and anything connected to her with a burning passion, as Harry had quickly found out._

_Harry had been spending the last night on the cold floor of the freezing hut thinking over what he found during his talks with Hagrid the evening before and had come to a very unsettling result – Dumbledore, who, by the way that Hagrid described him, was revered as the one person that could do no wrong, had been the one to place to at the Dursleys, a fact that both he and the Dursleys resented._

_And he had come to only one conclusion as to why that could be – to keep him hidden from the people that had followed Voldemort._

_This hypothesis had held for nearly ten hours before crumbling to pieces._

_Harry had had no idea __**what**__ magic could actually do, but he was pretty sure that there was a way to protect or hide something, which was why he had only warily formulated his theory the previous night anyway. There had to be a way to keep someone safe other than hiding him away from the Wizarding World as a whole._

_Therefore, he had asked a goblin after Hagrid had left him to get some money from his own vault – he figured that they would know, because protecting treasures was their job, after all. They had, even though they weren't what one would call nice, given him the information that he had needed – which had shot done his theory instantly._

_The goblins had sent him to a certain sub-department, the Wards Department. Here, all his questions had been answered – for a price, of course. But Harry had seen his vault and he had known that he wasn't lacking money._

_The safest way to hide was the Fidelius Charm – nobody could enter the place where Harry lived, unless the person that held the secret told someone, period. _

_Why hadn't he been hidden somewhere under the Fidelius Charm? Anyone could have been the Secret Keeper – there had to be ways to ensure that the person knowing the secret wouldn't blab. The goblins confirmed this – a simple Wizards or Witches Oath would completely suffice for something like that._

_Another way to hide – which was the way that Harry suspected as the way that he was hidden – was Blood Magic, but the goblins told him very quickly that it was a rather stupid idea for various reasons: it was deemed illegal and could land oneself in Azkaban for up to ten years, it magically drained the person that was being protected and it could be taken down far easier than the Fidelius could, because people could still see the place – it was just inaccessible to them, not truly hidden. The only upside was that it centred on a person and that it provided protection anywhere, as long as the person was close to a blood relative for a certain amount of time – thus not tying it to a location._

_Still, on the whole, the Fidelius was lot safer than Blood Magic could ever be. He could have simply been hidden in a house somewhere, with one person clued in that would look after him. He would have been unable to leave the house much, true, but that was better than being abused, wasn't it?_

_This conclusion, however, left open a very interesting question: why __**had**__ he been hidden away in this manner, by the Headmaster of Hogwarts, and, if Hagrid and the history books that he had read at Flourish and Blotts were to believed, one of the most powerful wizards alive (who would have doubtlessly been able to cast the Fidelius)?_

_This question – and no matter how he turned the matter, he always arrived at more or less exactly this question – left him with two possible answers._

_The first was that Dumbledore was unobservant and dumb – like Hagrid. This option, even though it was quite tempting to paint Dumbledore as someone really stupid, was unlikely – Dumbledore hadn't become the defeater of Grindelwald and the 'Only One that He Ever Feared' by being stupid. No, Harry knew – despite never meeting him – that Dumbledore was both powerful and intelligent._

_However, this only left him with the second option: that Dumbledore didn't care for his well-being. Or worse, that he __**wanted **__Harry to suffer – if he didn't care, then he would have just left him to die in the wreckage of his parents house, where a Death Eater or someone else would have found him._

_This seemed to be impossible at first, but no matter how Harry looked at it, he couldn't come to another conclusion._

_Dumbledore had wanted Harry to suffer._

_With all these thoughts running rampant in his head, it was no wonder that Harry was in no mood for Ollivander's reminiscences of the past. He wanted to get this done and some more time to think._

_If Harry's rude attitude perturbed Ollivander, he didn't show it. The aging man simply nodded and vanished into the huge amount of wand stacks, only to return for a short while later, carrying more boxes than Harry would have thought possible._

"_Try this one." He said, handing Harry a blackish-brown wand. "Ebony and dragon heartstring. Rather stiff." Harry hesitantly took it and looked at Ollivander with a 'and-what-do-I-do-now' look. "Well, give it a wave, lad!" Ollivander snapped impatiently, gesturing with his hands. Harry felt slightly offended – how was he supposed to know what he should do – but did as the white-eyed man had asked of him._

_Nothing happened._

_Before Harry could say anything, Ollivander had snatched the wand from Harry's hand and he had handed him another one. "Try this one. Oak and phoenix tail feather. Swishy." Harry waved it expectantly._

_Again, nothing happened._

_Harry sighed as Ollivander snatched the wand from his hand. This would be taking longer than he had thought._

* * *

><p><em>Three hours later, this hypothesis had proven itself – Harry still hadn't found a wand that suited him. Not that he really cared anymore, at least not actively. He simply wanted to find one that was even the least bit compatible so that he could leave this dusty, oppressing room and find somewhere to sleep – he had been on his feet for nearly nine hours (except for the short time on the subway and the lunch-break that they had taken at the Leaky Cauldron), so his tiredness was understandable.<em>

_The upside of this martyrdom that he was experiencing in this stuffed and dusty shop was that Hagrid hadn't been any fonder of this tedious task than he had and Harry had been able to convince him to leave after two hours of trying. He had promised him that he would be fine and that he would take the train home first thing when he had found a wand that suited him and Hagrid had departed – probably to bring the small, grubby package from Gringotts to Dumbledore. This left Harry to his own devices and he would be damned if he went back to the Dursleys._

_The question was: what would he do? Sure, he could get a room at the Leaky Cauldron or something, but someone might notice. If his suspicions regarding Dumbledore were true, then he wanted to stay off the radar for as long as he could._

_That also meant that he couldn't go to Hogwarts – which would, at the latest, alert Dumbledore that he was gone._

_Maybe he could use the goblin's help again – they could ward the abandoned house that he found close to Little Whinging, in the woods. He had always liked it there, because of the peacefulness and the quiet there._

_No, that wouldn't work. People would be bound to notice him when he left the property, to at least get food or something like that. But maybe…_

_While he was busy thinking about these things, he unknowingly took a few steps through the very crowded wand shop and, because he wasn't looking where he was going, he fell over a small stack of books. This led him to fall over the stack, with flailing arms trying to catch somewhere to hold upon._

_He didn't find something to hold onto, but he did hit a glass cabinet in a corner of the shop, in which a single wand was lying on a cushion. It looked old and worn-out, but he could see that it was made of something that he had never seen before – something that he was pretty sure was not wood, but rather – bone?_

_Harry noticed all of these things while falling towards the cabinet. The next thing that he knew was that he had crashed into it with his flailing right hand and it had broken into small shards. His hand was also bleeding rather furiously, but Harry didn't register it._

_The reason for this was that his magic was suddenly, for lack of a better word, alive and coursing through his body – and into the strange wand that he had reflexively caught._

_And this wand felt perfect, like an extension to his hand. Green sparks were shooting from it and the whole room suddenly seemed to be charged with magic itself, the air literally cracking as a constant stream of power flowed from Harry through the strange wand that he was holding._

_This was how Ollivander, who, upon hearing the crash, hurriedly came into the front of the store again (he had been looking for new wands for Harry to try), with a vivid expression while muttering something like 'can't even leave for a few seconds and they'll trash your shop'. His expression, however, turned from anger to shock – for it was a truly unique sight that he was greeted with._

_There, in the middle of his shop, stood Harry Potter, emanating raw magic in vast quantities – from the legendary wand of Salazar Slytherin himself, while bleeding from his wand hand, a completely dumbfounded look on his face. _

_After a few seconds, Ollivader regained enough of his wits to close his mouth and to ask the question that was lying on his tongue._

"_Mr. Potter, what happened here?"_

* * *

><p><em>When Harry left Ollivander's fifteen minutes later, he was in notably higher spirits than he would have thought possible only a quarter of an hour ago. He wasn't even that tired anymore, though he couldn't be sure whether that was because the magic that had travelled through his body had somehow re-energized him or if was simply the effect of his first breaths of fresh air in three hours. Not that he really cared – he was deep in thought thinking about what Ollivander had said about Harry possessing the wand of Salazar Slytherin himself.<em>

"_There is only few recorded cases of such a strong compatibility with another wand – with the wand the was originally that of someone else, that is. In all cases, the people were strongly compatible with the wands of their fathers."_

"_That's ridiculous. From what I read, Salazar Slytherin has been dead for nearly a millennium. How could he be my father?" Ollivander, however, had only shrugged his shoulders and had told him to go to Gringotts – they had a Heritage and Ancestry Department that could answer his questions. However, he was sure that Harry was a blood relative of Salazar's at least – something that Ollivander had recommended him to keep quiet, because most people would get the wrong idea about Harry._

_Harry had then, understanding Ollivander's subtlety quite well, paid him double for the wand (28 galleons in total) and Ollivander had been very quick to assure him of his silence after that. Harry, meanwhile, had only shaken his head – bribery seemed to work in the Wizarding World just as effectively as it did in the Muggle World._

_Because of all this, Harry was headed towards Gringotts – maybe they could help him with the Slytherin mystery. It wasn't a change of plans at any rate, anyway, because he had wanted to go there anyway, after having gotten rid of Hagrid. This way he might as well kill two birds with one stone._

* * *

><p>"<em>Hello. I would like to speak with someone from the Heritage and Ancestry Department as well as with someone from the Wards Department." Harry said, walking up towards a counter made from white marble within the Gringotts entrance hall. He tried to sound friendly yet straight-forward at the same time – an attitude that, as he had observed during his strolls through London, many Muggle businessmen preferred. The same seemed to hold true for the goblin behind the counter, because he looked at Harry with considerably less malice than before (though he was still far from friendly, in Harry's opinion – and he had seen some pretty nasty facial expressions, most of them directed at him!).<em>

"_Name?" He asked gruffly, flashing his pointy teeth at Harry, who forced himself to not gulp – he hated appearing weak._

"_Harry Potter." The goblin simply nodded and wrote it down, paying the fact that he was talking with a national celebrity no heed – a refreshing change, Harry thought. When he had written it down, the goblin waved his hand the small strip that held Harry's name disappeared._

"_They have been notified that you are coming. You should go to the Heritage and Ancestry Department first, as every worker at the Wards Department is currently doing business." Harry found it rather odd that a goblin would give him this piece of advice – but then, time was money after all, a rule that the goblins seemed to live with pretty obviously._

"_Thank you." Harry nodded curtly and left the teller. He didn't reciprocate the greeting, he only watched the small form of the Boy-Who-Lived retreating from his desk for a brief moment, before he turning his attention to his rather large desk of paperwork._

* * *

><p><em>Harry was meanwhile meandering through the white corridors of the Gringotts building. It was built like a maze, Harry thought idly and he would probably be totally lost without the maps that were inscribed into the marble every hundred feet or so – especially concerning that he could very well feel that no magic would work here, thus rendering any spells that would help with that usele-<em>

_Wait._

_How the fuck did he know that? How could he feel the wards on Gringotts? He was pretty sure that he hadn't felt them when he had been here earlier this day._

_But that had to mean that something had happened to him when he had picked up Slytherin's wand. Had that really enabled him to feel wards? He didn't know for sure, but that sounded pretty far-fetched, even for the Wizarding World._

_While pondering these facts, Harry had – unnoticed by himself – reached the door of the Heritage and Ancestry Department, which was headed by Bj__ørk – wasn't that the name of a Muggle musician? – as it said on the plaque on the door._

_Well, no use pondering life's coincidence, Harry thought and knocked on the door._

* * *

><p><em>Bj<em>_ørk, the head (and only worker) of the Heritage and Ancestry Department of Gringotts was "doing important paperwork" – well, he was actually playing Battleship against his friend Grindfist who was working in the Vault Security Department via Messenger Parchment (two pieces of parchment that were magically linked to show things written on one piece on the other, but only if they were written in a special ink), but he had to have an acceptable excuse should someone actually come to his office. _

_Customers weren't the problem – they weren't interested in what a goblin was doing anyway, if he put it away the moment the business began. No, the people for which this illusion (complete with mountains of parchment that had already been filled out) was intended were Controllers – goblins, that, in irregular intervals, would visit different offices to see whether everyone was working to their maximum capacity. Their visits were rare, true, but he didn't want to take the chance of being assigned more work, because he was rather content with the small amount that he had to do, thank you very much (needless to say, such an increase of workload would not be coupled with an increase in pay)._

_He had just, in a very tactical manoeuvre, sunken two of Grindfist's large ships, reducing him to one small one, when it knocked on the door._

_Damnit!, he thought. Just as it was going so well. He quickly scribbled a message to Grindfist that he had a customer or an inspection (though he hoped that it was the former) before clearing his throat, stacking the Battleship parchment into a random position of the huge stack of parchment and, after he had assured himself that everything looked like it was supposed to look, he waved his hand, causing the door to swing open._

_The first thing he noticed was that it was not an inspection of the Controllers (which was, as he privately thought, a pretty uninspired name) but a customer – however, he was different from Bj__ørk's other customers, vastly different._

_Bj__ørk mostly dealt with people that were rather magically weak and that were trying to hide this fact by adding an important-sounding name to theirs. They were normally arrogant and impeccably dressed, but __Bj__ørk could see that there they had no substance. Worst of all, they were about as cunning and subtle as a nuclear bomb (goblins did invest into the Muggle World and were therefore rather familiar with modern Muggle technology), while simultaneously thinking themselves to be the next Salazar Slytherin._

_The person – no, the boy that stood in his doorway, gazing into his crowded office, however, was nothing like his usual clientele, something that __Bj__ørk was very happy about. He was tired and he didn't want to deal with someone like Lucius Malfoy right now, so this boy was a welcome alternative._

_Still, he wouldn't get too friendly – the goblins did have a reputation, after all._

"_Well, don't dawdle and come in! I don't have all day." __Bj__ørk said gruffly. Actually, he did, but that wasn't the point. However, to his surprise, the boy didn't go into the defensive (something along the lines of 'respect your betters, you filthy creature'), but he didn't become subdued either. He simply raised his eyebrow a little as if to say that he thought otherwise and entered the room, closing the door behind them. He then sat down, his face expressionless all the time, without giving a hostile impression – something that not many people could do._

"_I need to find out whether I am related to a certain person. How much will that cost me?" The boy asked, brushing his black hair casually out of face, revealing a lightning-bolt-shaped scar – one that even the goblins knew about, even though they were generally rather uninterested in wizarding celebrities._

"_That, Mr. Potter, would be fifty-six galleons for one enquiry and ninety-five galleons for two." Actually, this wasn't true – the prices actual prices were far lower, but this service was only offered by Gringotts and therefore, the customer had to accept whatever offer was made, if he was truly interested, at least. It would only be __Bj__ørk's gain, because he could keep the surplus money for himself._

"_Very well." Potter said disdainfully, the look on his face showing that he was perfectly aware of what the goblin was doing but that he didn't really consider it worth to bargain over it. "Here." He said carelessly, tossing a small bag on the table, which __Bj__ørk opened to count. It did contain fifty-six galleons, so he put it aside carefully._

"_Which family do you wish to have investigated in?" He asked, pulling out a corner of a piece of parchment._

"_Salazar Slytherin." Potter said, sounding rather uninterested, as though all of this didn't concern him in the least. _

_Bj__ørk didn't react in the least – he dealt with people hoping to claim the seven ancient vaults (Circe, Peverell, Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, Slytherin as well as an unknown vault that had never been opened since it had been built, nearly a thousand years ago) on daily basis, so this was nothing new. It was probably a waste of money, but he wouldn't complain about gaining additional money, so he kept quiet._

"_Very well. I shall need some blood from you." __Bj__ørk said businesslike, producing a small dagger and a marble bowl that looked very old from a cupboard of his desk and handing them over to the boy in front of him that was starting to unnerve him slightly, with his emotionless face. He cut into his thumb without a word and let a few drops of blood fall into the bowl, which he then gave back to __Bj__ørk, who made it disappear (that's what it looked like, in any case) with a snap of his fingers._

_What he had really done was that he had magically transported it to the vaults and notified Steeltooth, the goblin who was in charge of today's guard patrol below Gringotts, that this blood was to be tested upon compatibility with the Slytherin vault._

_Every Gringotts vault had a safety mechanism within it, at least every prominent one – every heir could only enter if a blood test was done and he was found to be related closely enough to the previous owner of the vault. If the vault door opened, then the person whose blood was being tested was a direct relative or descendant of the previous owner of the vault – in this case, Salazar Slytherin – since his death, the Slytherin vault had not been opened, something that no-one could understand – surely one of his heirs would have been interested in claiming the immense riches of the Slytherin vault?_

_Anyway, that was the process that Gringotts used to determine someone's lineage. The problem with this process was that they could not do a direct analysis of the blood to bring the family tree of someone to light because that was blood magic – which was forbidden, upon penalty of death. The blood wards that were implemented into the vaults, that checked the blood could still be used, because they had been implemented before this decree had been passed and the family tapestries older than this decree (which hung in some vaults and which worked exactly the same way a Lineage Revealing Potion would work) weren't outlawed either, but it would be illegal to do so today._

_Therefore, because no-one had thought that it would be necessary at the time of their making, the blood wards didn't reveal exactly how a person was related to the previous owner of the vault._

_Not that it really mattered, in this case anyway. If the vaults didn't open (which __Bj__ørk strongly suspected), then there was no relation (or it was simply too weak to be of interest), and if they did, then the boy would have access to the Slytherin family tree, which would answer his question to the degree of relation just as well as other ways of revealing this could._

_While they were waiting for a reply from Steeltooth, __Bj__ørk did some paperwork (some real paperwork this time – he wouldn't play Battleship with a customer seeing!), while Potter stared into the space, apparently deep in thought – not that __Bj__ørk cared, personally._

_Ten minutes later, the empty bowl and a new piece of parchment appeared on __Bj__ørk's desk – Steeltooth's reply. He put the bowl (that had already been cleaned) into the cupboard again, before picking up the piece of parchment._

"Blood test positive – bearer of blood heir to Vault 7 (Slytherin family)."

_Well, as expect- Wait, what?_

_Bj__ørk re-read the parchment, then re-read it a second time, just to be sure that he understood what it said correctly. After he had shaken his head as well as closed and re-opened his eyes, he had to concede that Potter was, after all, the legitimate heir of Slytherin._

"_Well, Mr. Potter. It appears that you were correct in your assumption – you are related to Salazar Slytherin. Closely enough to be able to claim the Slytherin vault, that is." He said, waiting for a reaction from the boy. However, he was sorely disappointed._

_The boy's mouth didn't fall open, he didn't look flabbergasted – his expression was more that of a person who had expected this all along. Had that been the case?_

_Bj__ørk shook his head, it didn't matter now. He pulled out a piece of parchment from the stack in front of him – no, not that one, that had the unfinished Battleship game on it… that one was empty – and wrote._

"Harry James Potter is the heir to Vault 7 (Slytherin family)." _He then stamped it with the official stamp of the Heritage and Ancestry Department (something that he was using for the first time today!) which could not be faked, to show the authenticity of this document, which he then handed to the boy, who took it silently._

"_If you show this to a teller, you will be led down to the vault, where you can open it. If you lose it, you have to come here again and do the test again, because without this document, no-one is allowed to enter the deepest part of Gringotts, where the seven oldest vaults are located."_

_Potter nodded and stood up, putting the document into his pocket, before turning to the door. Once he had reached it, it opened it and, before leaving, turned around once more._

"_Pleasure doing business with you."_

"_Yes, yes, the same." __Bj__ørk said, mentally rolling his eyes – now that the surprise had worn off, he desperately wanted to get back to his game of Battleship against Grindfist – the game had been in a critical phase, after all._

_Little did he know that this would be last game of Battleship he would ever play – for while Grindfist was on shift, during which he should have taken care of the vault security, a thief had successfully entered Gringotts. Luckily, the vault that he had been after had already been empty, but that only made it marginally better – Gringotts was supposed to impenetrable, so this was a serious blow to their reputation. Grindfist was subsequently beheaded for his failure and __Bj__ørk, who had been at least partially at fault because he had encouraged Grindfist to participate in the game, suffered the same fate, before the sun had risen the next morning._

* * *

><p><em>Meanwhile, Harry was in a cart with another goblin, driving down towards the deepest levels of Gringotts, unaware of the break-in that was occurring just now, several levels above him – the break-in that would cost both Bj<em>_ørk's and Grindfist's lives._

_Not that he would have particularly cared – __Bj__ørk hadn't been the friendliest person he had ever met (though he was an improvement over Uncle Vernon) and he didn't know Grindfist at all. Additionally, he did believe that whoever fucked something up should live with the consequences (well, not live, but die in this case) – which was another reason why he hated the Dursleys so much, because all of his treatment at their hands was not only cruel, but also supremely unfair._

_Anyway._

_The young, soon-to-be heir of the Slytherin vault was currently clinging to the steel cart that was transporting both him and the goblin that was assisting him (an, as far as Harry could judge from their appearance, rather young goblin by the name of Bonesmasher, a name that Harry found rather amusing – though it did leave him to wonder why the hell a goblin was called __Bj__ørk of all names, if all the others had names such Bonesmasher or Griphook) deeper and deeper still at breakneck speeds._

_Finally, they had arrived at the deepest level of Gringotts, where, according to Bonesmasher, one could find the seven ancient vaults, which were all without an heir – this would, however, soon change._

_Down here, it was very dark, even though there were lots of torches on the walls – the darkness seemed to be denser than normal darkness, though this didn't really bother Harry – the darkness had always been his refuge from the cruel treatment that he had experienced at the hands of the Dursleys. Bonesmasher, however, (who had never been down this deep) was looking rather creeped-out, even to Harry's inexperienced eyes._

_The two of them made their along a small and narrow path that twisted further into the solid stone underneath Diagon Alley. Harry idly wondered why the vaults were this far away from the rails – surely they could been built in a way that they were closer to where the people visiting them came from – but he didn't ask, because he doubted that Bonesmasher knew it and, even if he did, goblins weren't the best conversationalists._

_After about two minutes of this narrow and small tunnel, Bonesmasher and Harry stood in an underground cavern that was, in actuality, rather small (it was actually smaller than the corridors of Gringotts above the ground), but it did seem far larger, partly because of the small tunnel that had preceded it and partly because of the rather lacking light that threw very long shadows onto the walls, which made the walls themselves seem much further away from the centre of the cavern than they really were. At the far end of the cavern, there was a solid metal door, almost as high as the cavern itself with the seal of the Slytherin family upon it (Harry had seen it when briefly skimming _Hogwarts. A History _at Flourish and Blott's). The snake within the coat of arms seemed to be alive and it was following every movement that the young boy and the goblin made._

"_I am unable to go on." Bonesmasher said, sounding rather bored, though Harry was fairly sure that he could hear both excitement and viciousness in his words (Harry had learned to read moods and subtle undertones rather quickly, because it made his life in the Dursley household much easier) – was he hoping that Harry would somehow fail the blood test, which would brutally and painfully kill him? Or was hoping to gain a look into the legendary vault of Salazar Slytherin?_

_Idiot. He might not particularly like the goblins, but if a test of the Heritage and Ancestry Department had revealed him to be the legitimate heir, then this was simply a formality. And if he was hoping to catch a look, he was an even greater imbecile – Harry tended to be rather touchy, concerning his privacy._

"_Very well." Harry said smoothly, not betraying his thoughts in any way. "Please wait here for me, until I am ready to return to the surface."_

"_How long do you think you will take? I have other duties to fulfil aside of babysitting you." Bonesmasher sneered. Harry, even though he was seething inwards, remained calm – only small twitch of his eyebrow revealed his anger, though Bonesmasher didn't see this, due to the relative darkness within the cavern._

"_I will take at least two hours. Be back by then." Bonesmasher nodded and turned away, leaving the cavern through the tunnel through which they had entered it, leaving Harry alone within it._

_Harry took a deep breath and approached the vault door of the Slytherin vault with slight trepidation. No matter how much of a formality it was, the little that he knew about the Gringotts blood wards was enough to chill him to the bones._

_When he was standing in front of the vault, the snake's eyes suddenly began to glow, easily outshining the two torches, and the snake let out a hiss akin to that of a person that is awakening from a long slumber. After another few seconds, the snake really did come to life and it opened its mouth, rolling out its tongue. It remained in this position and it took Harry a few seconds until he understood that the snake wanted his blood, to test whether he was a legitimate heir or not._

_He quickly looked around because he didn't happen to carry anything sharp with him, until his eyes rested on the snake's fangs. They did look sharp enough and even though Harry suspected that they were supposed to only be decoration, they would suit his purpose just fine. He tentatively stretched out a finger and carefully pricked it on the sharp fang of the metal snake. He then let a few drops of blood drop onto the outstretched tongue of the snake, which immediately recoiled, taken the blood with it to God know where._

_For the next few minutes, nothing happened – the wards were probably testing his blood. Meanwhile, he wiped the surplus blood from his finger using a handkerchief that he found in the pocket of his jacket, right next to his shrunken trunk._

_Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, a low rumbling could be heard from beyond the vault door. It sounded rather uneven – probably because the gears that were responsible had not been used for nearly a millennium – but it was undoubtedly the sound of the door opening. Harry let out a breath of relief that he didn't know he had been holding and wiped his sweaty palms. Even though the test that __Bj__ørk had conducted had told him this already, things rarely went his way in life, so it was understandable that he was relieved that the wards did accept him and didn't somehow malfunction and kill him anyway or something like that._

_Suddenly the rumbling stopped, which struck Harry rather strange because the door wasn't open yet. However, his question was answered a few seconds later, when the snake on the door opened its mouth and brought out its tongue once again. All traces of his blood were gone from the snake's tongue, but it did carry a silver key with it, which Harry took carefully, remembering what Bonesmasher had told him when he had asked about the key: that the keys were bound to the life-force of the owner of the vault – should the owner die, it would automatically transport the keys back to the vault, which would only relinquish them after the blood wards accepted the heir. After this had happened, the vault could be entered with the key, which made the blood test only necessary once. Harry pocketed the key cautiously and then stood back (he remembered that the vault door of his trust vault had opened itself outwards and he had no desire to be crushed against the stone walls of Gringotts)._

_A few seconds later, the door did open, though his caution proved to be unnecessary because the door didn't open outwards but instead slid directly into the wall to its left, revealing a dark cavern behind it, which was only lit by the torches behind him. Carefully, he stepped beyond the threshold of the door, only to suddenly be forced to close his eyes._

_The moment that he had entered the vault, it was suddenly flood with warm light, which, interestingly enough, didn't seem to come from any source, but it was simply there. It illuminated every nook and cranny of the cavern and what Harry saw left him speechless._

_He had been surprised quite often during his first day in the Wizarding World, but this was something else entirely._

_It wasn't the money, though there was a very large pile of golden Galleons piled at the far end of the cavern. No, what truly astonished Harry were the large shelves, chiselled directly into the stone walls of the cavern, which were filled to the brim with books and pieces of parchment. _

_Harry had always loved to read fiction and non-fiction alike, because it allowed him to forget his hellish life at Privet Drive Nr. 4. Add to that the fact that Harry had a burning desire to understand everything that he could understand and you just might understand why Harry's reaction was what it was upon setting his eyes upon the Slytherin library._

_As far as Harry could tell, they were sorted into four different categories (at least, this was the impression he got when circled the cavern once, scanning the thousands of books that were now at his disposal): Battle Magic (Defense Against the Dark Arts, Dark Arts, Duelling,…), other kinds of wanded magic (Transfiguration and Charms, mostly), Potions (including a book of potions that Salazar had created himself) and other kinds of magic that didn't need a wand (this was primarily Runes and Arithmancy, with a special emphasis on Spell Creation). All these books made him want to read them right away, but he held himself back – he could explore later or even take some with him. For now, he was really interested in information concerning his ancestor._

_After he had nearly completed one whole round along the walls of the cavern, he noticed a small door in the wall that he hadn't noticed before. It was nearly the same colour as the wall was; therefore he only saw it when he was standing directly before it. It didn't have a knob or a handle, but it opened when Harry pushed against it slightly._

_He stuck his head through the gap of the door and saw a very small room, which was chiselled directly from stone, just like the main vault room. It was empty, except for a table, on which there were two books, both rather thick. This instantly made Harry curious – what kind of books could these be and why were they in a separate room, not in the shelves like the others?_

_He slowly entered the room, which was, just like the main vault, illuminated by a light source that Harry couldn't locate. He then strode across the rather small room and picked up one of the two books._

_It looked rather new, which confused Harry for a while – wasn't it nearly a thousand years old? After thinking about this for a while, he came to the rather obvious answer: magic. Of course there would be a kind of preservation spell. It was bound in dark green leather, with the title stamped into it with silver letters. It was written in a rather cursive script, but Harry could easily decipher it._

The Memoirs of Salazar Slytherin,_ it read on the book. Harry nearly jumped with joy: this was exactly what he had been looking for! During his life at the Dursleys, Harry had had next to no information on his family, therefore it was understandable that this book did excite him quite a lot – even though Salazar Slytherin had lived nearly a millennium ago, it was still at least some information on his family and his ancestors._

_He opened the book and quickly skimmed through it. As far as he could tell, it told Salazar's life story in chronological order. Well, this was definitely something that he would take with him, but he didn't have time right now. A quick glance onto his watch (a very battered one, with multiple scratches and a completely unfitting wristband, because the original one had been torn when he had found it, but it worked and that was all that counted) confirmed his assumption: it was nearly seven o'clock and he still needed a place to sleep. Of course, he could take a room at the Leaky Cauldron, but he was unsure as to how long the inn was actually open – that meant that he had to really hurry up, because he didn't want to spend the night on the streets (he had done so once and it had been an experience that he didn't want to repeat)._

_With these thoughts in mind, he quickly turned over the other book. It was about as thick as Slytherin's memoirs, but it was considerably larger in terms of both length and width. It was bound in black leather, with golden letters embroidered upon it._

Finances, Deeds and Properties_. _Self-Updating., _was the title and Harry could barely believe his luck. This book might be very helpful – if he was owner of a house or property, then this would make his disappearance far easier than it was anyway. With these thoughts in mind, he flipped it open to the index. Quickly scanning over it, he found out that the section _'Properties' _was the first of the book, which was where he turned the pages to._

_The section '_Properties_' was rather short, filling less than a page. It listed quite a few properties, such as a house in what was Glasgow today as well as a bungalow in the Forest of Dean. The problem with these was that they were currently out of his reach, because he didn't really possess the possibility to use magical travel at the moment. Sure, he could probably organize something with the goblins, but there was an alternative: he also owned a Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place in London._

_This seemed ideal to Harry, until he read the footnote that accompanied it: _Currently in the hands of the Black family, officially registered as property of said family. By claiming the property through an heir, the official ownership will shift again.

_Damn!, Harry thought. This wouldn't really work – even if he could shift the possession of the house from the Blacks to him, then someone would surely notice and that was exactly what he was trying to avoid. Or would they notice? For all knew, the Black family could all be dead by now._

_Okay, that was unlikely, because in that case they probably wouldn't be listed in this book anyway, since it was self-updating, but still. Harry yawned and looked at his watch again. Seven-fifteen. Not that late, but then again, he had been an his feet the whole day and it had been a mentally taxing day as well, with all the surprises that it entailed. He would leave now and research the Black family tomorrow – maybe there was a way to use Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place after all…_

* * *

><p><em>Nearly two hours later, a very tired Harry Potter left Gringotts bank – he had forgotten that Bonesmasher had left him and he couldn't reach the surface without him. Looking back, it had been rather stupid to allow him to leave – he could have left Harry to die down there – but luckily he didn't. Still, Harry vowed himself to be more careful in the future.<em>

_The upside of the additional time in the vault had been that he had been able to look through the books one by one and he had packed quite a few of them into his trunk (to do this, he had learned his first piece of magic along with it – the Enlargement and the Shrinking Charm, which he had picked up very quickly from the Charms guide of his ancestor. Using it, he had packed two books on magical transportations as well as some other books that caught his fancy, some from every area of magic that Slytherin had written about)._

_Although Harry didn't realize it at that moment, he would soon learn that these books were far superior to the books that one could acquire nowadays and would doubtlessly be worth a lot, considering the fact that they treated magic that no-one had even knew of nowadays, or at least magic on which there were next to no resources on (such as soul magic)._

_With all these ancient tomes, shrunken in his pocket, he made his way from Gringotts to the Leaky Cauldron. The sun was just setting and Diagon Alley was nearly empty – he only met a few people on the street and they all seemed very eager to leave it again. Harry had no idea what they were concerned about, but he wasn't about to find out either._

_Within five minutes (which was less than half the time that he had needed for this distance in the morning), Harry had reached the Leaky Cauldron again. Luckily, it was still opened and Tom, the bartender, was still behind the bar, though he was the only person in the room – a fact that Harry greatly appreciated, because he wasn't looking forward to another round of 'Oh-look-its-Harry-Potter' – it had been annoying enough in the morning, thank you very much._

"_Tom?" He said, approaching the bar quickly, while yawning. The aging bartender looked up from the glass that he was currently scrubbing and showed Harry a toothless grin. Well, Harry thought, it looks friendlier than Uncle Vernon, which is definitely something positive, even though he won't win any beauty contests._

"_Mr. Potter. What can I do for you?" Tom asked – how do you speak normally and understandably if all your teeth are missing, Harry idly wondered – his eyes never leaving Harry's._

"_I would like to rent a room for the night. I got caught in the Alley and now it's too late to go home, you understand?" Harry offered this little nugget of information, because he had learned that people tended to ask less questions if you offered explanations on your own, and less questions was always something good. It seemed to work on Tom, who didn't say anything – he turned around and opened a small cupboard behind him, from where he got a small silver key that he handed to Harry. It was surprisingly heavy._

"_Here you go, Mr. Potter. You can pay in the morning." He added, upon seeing that Harry was rummaging within his pockets. The young boy nodded thankfully and put the key into his pocket, right next to his shrunken trunk (he only had one pocket – the other one was full of holes and everything fell out of it)._

"_You have room eleven." Tom said, once he had Harry's attention again. "Do you want me to show you the way or…" He didn't complete the sentence, because Harry interrupted him._

"_I'll be fine, I think. If you would tell me where…"_

"_Up the staircase there and down the hallway to the right. Room eleven is the last one." Harry nodded once, showing his understanding. He turned and crossed the room, climbing the staircase, just as Tom bade him goodnight._

* * *

><p><em>The next morning, Harry woke up in a bed that was far more comfortable than any other bed that he had ever slept in. This was not really surprising – his mattress in the cupboard had been rather old and he had slept on the same mattress when had moved to Dudley's old bedroom, and the makeshift bed on the rock last night was even worse.<em>

_After lying in bed for a few more minutes, simply savouring the feeling of being comfortable for once, he got up and dressed. After fishing a few galleons from his trunk, he put it back into his pocket (he had kept it under his pillow, for safety reasons – it was pretty much all that he had at the moment, after all) and left the room, hoping that Tom was already serving breakfast._

_Tom, as it turned out, was already serving breakfast, though Harry was once again the only person in the pub. He quickly ordered an English breakfast, something that he had always wanted to try, but had never been able to at the Dursleys. While Tom served him, he had a sudden stroke of inspiration: Tom would probably know everyone from Wizarding Britain who was worth knowing – maybe he could help him with the Black family. But how to approach him best, without making him suspicious?_

_While Harry was eating his breakfast, which turned out to be rather disappointing – he preferred his breakfast with less fat, personally – he formulated a plan. It wasn't very elaborate or secure, but he was fairly confident that it should work. It relied a lot on Tom's professionalism, but from what he gathered yesterday, he could probably rely on it._

"_Tom?" He asked when the toothless barman took away his plate that he had emptied. "Have you… oh, great breakfast by the way… what can you tell me about the Black family?" Tom looked at him rather surprised, but didn't answer for a moment. "I heard their name mentioned at Gringotts concerning my family." Harry interjected, hoping that this would prompt Tom to speak. It was true after all – he just didn't specify which family he meant._

"_Well…" Tom said. "I could imagine that you would. Wait a minute, and I'll tell you the story." Tom left Harry's table and put the empty plate along with Harry's empty glass (he had had orange juice) onto the counter and returned to the table, taking a chair himself and sitting down in front of Harry._

"_The Black family are probably one of the darkest families in Wizarding Britain. Many of them supported You-Know-Who's cause, even if they didn't support him directly. They are one of the oldest houses there is and they are terribly proud of it." At this point, Tom's face shifted into a grimace, though Harry wasn't sure whether it was because of what he had just told or because of what was to come. "Actually, two of You-Know-Who's most famous supporters are members of the Black Family: Bellatrix Lestrange, who was born a Black as well as Sirius Black, supposedly You-Know-Who's right hand. That's probably the name that you heard, isn't it?"_

_Harry simply nodded. If Tom provided him with such an invitation, who was he to decline?_

"_Well, Sirius was James Potter's best friend – your father's best friend. Or that's what everyone believed, anyway. Now, what actually happened is probably only known to those really high up in the Ministry, but the gist is that Sirius Black was found killing thirteen Muggles as well as wizard, who was also his supposed friend: Peter Pettigrew. It is rumoured that Pettigrew shouted that Sirius had betrayed the Potter's location to You-Know-Who, before Black's curse ripped him apart. It would make sense, I suppose – if your parents trusted anyone, it was Black." While telling the story, a small tear escaped Tom's eye and fell onto the wooden table, but Harry didn't comment on it – he didn't even notice it._

_The only thing that he knew at that moment was rage._

_Because of Sirius Black, Harry had never known his parents. Because of Sirius Black, Harry had grown up unloved and abused._

_All because of the person who was supposed to be his father's best friend._

"_Mr. Potter?" Tom voice, laced with concern shook him out of his rage. With supreme force, Harry pushed his feelings away, something that he had perfected during his years at the Dursleys. It wouldn't do to lose his composure just now – people always exploited any weaknesses that were shown, as life had taught Harry._

"_I'm fine." Harry said, pressing his teeth together. It didn't sound like he was fine and knew that Tom most likely wouldn't believe him, but then, who would be calm after such a revelation? "What happened to Sirius Black?" Harry asked, half of him hoping that he was suffering while the other half was hoping that he was still free – that way Harry could kill him himself (he knew, of course, if he thought about it rationally, that he stood no chance against the right hand of Voldemort, but he had never felt such a burning desire to kill someone and it wouldn't be suppressed, no matter what rational arguments spoke against it)._

"_He is in Azkaban, where he will stay until his death – the Wizarding prison." Tom added the last part after seeing Harry's questioning look. Harry simply nodded, gathering himself again. What was the reason he had asked in the first place again – ah yes…_

"_Are there any other members of the Black family still alive?" Harry asked, trying to sound idly curious. Tom looked at him with a little suspicion, but said nothing._

"_Narcissa and Andromeda – Bellatrix' sisters – are still alive, but they aren't really involved with the Black family issues anymore. Politically, the family's as good as dead." Tom said – he was used to people asking strange questions and it wasn't as though he was giving out classified information – what he was telling Harry could all be found somewhere else too. Still, his interest in the Black family was rather strange._

"_Thank you, Tom." Harry nodded and stood up, signalling that the conversation was over. "How much do I owe you for the night and the breakfast?"_

"_Ten galleons for the room. Breakfast is included." Harry nodded and slid eleven golden Galleons across the table to the bartender, before putting on his jacket over his worn-out t-shirt and leaving the room towards the Muggle World, with Tom looking after him and pondering the strangeness of his behaviour. However, before long, the pub filled with other customers and Tom's thoughts on Harry Potter were pushed to the back of his mind._

* * *

><p>"<em>Can you show me the way to Grimmauld Place, please?" Harry asked the young man in front of him politely. He was currently in the Muggle World, because he had seen the address Grimmauld Place on a Muggle city map once and he figured that the house would either be hidden to Muggles or that there was another secret passage from Muggle to Wizarding World. Either way, he would probably have to get to the Muggle location Grimmauld Place first.<em>

"_Sure, kiddo. It ain't far, just down that road and then two turns left. You'll come to small seamy place after crossing two or three roads. That's Grimmauld – fitting name, really." Harry thanked the person and continued on his way._

_He had figured that he could claim the ownership of Grimmauld Place with a fairly low risk involved. Narcissa and Andromeda were very unlikely to use it and Sirius was in Azkaban. Better than he deserved, the motherfucking traitor, Harry thought rather vindictively. Anyway, the chance of people noticing the shift of possesion was rather slim and he was willing to risk it. Even if people would notice, he could adapt the wards to make the house inaccessible, if all else failed – though he did hope that he could do the whole thing without stirring up too much of a ruckus._

_While Harry had pondered these thoughts, he had already reached Grimmauld Place. Harry looked around and only his self-control stopped him from wrinkling his nose: the young man that he had asked for directions had been right, the name was fitting. It was a dark and oppressing place that stank like a dump – not that it mattered to Harry, but he did notice it._

_He looked around the place. To his left, he saw Number Eleven and Thirteen, but there was no space in between for Number Twelve. That meant that it was magically hidden, which could pose a problem if what he was going to try didn't work – it would surely mean that he would have to go back to Gringotts and he would have to employ the Warding Department there, which would be tedious and costly. Plus, he didn't really like the goblins._

_Therefore, he was hoping with all his might that this would work, even though the idea sounded stupid even in his head – still, with the way the Wizarding World was, it might even work. _

_He made sure that he was wearing the Slytherin ring (he had hidden it in his trunk during the night and had only gotten it out again once he was out of the Wizarding World – the chances of someone recognizing it were slim, but he didn't want to take any chances), then he took one last deep breath and began to speak, in a tone far more confident than he actually felt._

"_I, Harry James Potter, Lord of Slytherin, hereby reclaim Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place as my property from the hands of the Black family. So I say, so mote it be!" This was rather surprising to Harry – he had just wanted to state something along these lines, sure, but what he had actually said was something that he would have never dreamt of saying. It was as though another entity had possessed him, but strangely enough it didn't bother him. Whatever it had been, it had felt right._

_Harry's words had had the desired effect – he could suddenly see the house, as he felt control of the wards shift to himself. Suddenly, he knew quite a lot on wards, especially on dark wards – and the knowledge kept coming, being dumped into his head faster than he could comprehend, causing his knees to buckle slightly. With all his might, Harry repressed a scream of pain as he nearly felt the knowledge tear his head apart._

_And suddenly it was over and Harry fell to the ground, gasping for breath._

_After lying on the grimy ground for a few seconds, Harry had gotten his bearing again and he stood up, dusting off the worst of the dirt from his jacket and his second-hand jeans. He then raised his head to take his first look at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place._

_Like the place itself, it was dingy, seamy and dark. The windows were all dusty, as though they hadn't been cleaned in centuries. The façade of the house was pure black itself, though Harry couldn't tell whether it was that way because of dirt or if it was intended to be like this._

_However, all of this mattered little to Harry as he carefully opened the front door, after he had used the knowledge that had been dumped in his brain to alter the wards to only give himself access to the house, and no-one else._

_He finally had a place to stay._

_A place where he wouldn't be detected._

_[END FLASHBACK]_

With so much force that the door hit the wall behind it, Harry opened the door to the kitchen, which he and the other people that lived in the house used as a living room as well. The other inhabitants of Grimmauld Place were already there.

Interestingly enough, everyone in the room was thought to be dead by the general public – including Harry himself, though that probably wouldn't last much longer.

At the far end of the table was Sirius Black, Harry's godfather. He was clad in a black shirt with the cover of Megadeth's _Countdown to Extinction_ depicted on it (he and Harry liked to argue whether Megadeth or Metallica were better) and black jeans. His feet were lying casually on the chair next to the one that he was sitting on. His black eyes, which looked pained ever since his stay in Azkaban, were alert and focused on the cards he was holding (it seemed to be poker, but Harry couldn't be too sure and he didn't care at the moment, either), though they switched over to Harry within fractions of a second when he forcefully entered the room.

Sirius had been supposedly killed when Voldemort had busted out his followers, including Sirius' cousin Bellatrix, from prison in December of 1992. Bellatrix had, to celebrate her freedom, taunted Sirius for quite a while and, upon receiving her wand from another one of Voldemort's lackeys, celebrated this joyous day by torturing him for a few minutes and then, when it had been time to leave, caused the ceiling of Sirius' cell to cave in.

The falling debris had nearly killed Sirius – only his Animagus form and a small section of space that one of the pieces of rubble had formed with the wall of his cell had saved him. He had been bruised, sure, but he had been alive. He had hidden himself within the mountain of rubble, thinking desperately of a way to escape from here, when he had gotten lucky once again: someone had destroyed the ceiling of the cell below him, rendering the ground below him very thin – it barely supported him. He had noticed this right away with his dog senses and he had, once the Death Eaters and Voldemort had left the prison, managed to break through the thin layer that still separated him from the cell below him, where he had landed on the debris which had probably buried someone else. Luckily, the cell door had been blasted from its hinges, so Sirius could leave the cell quickly, seconds before the remains of what had once been his cell had come crashing down.

The prison had been deserted and he had managed to leave it without being seen. His missing body was simply attributed to the Dementors (who fed upon dead bodies sometimes, even though they preferred emotions) and he had been declared dead.

Nearly two months later, he had appeared on Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, where Harry had spotted him and, after nearly killing him in anger, accepting the story of his innocence, had offered him asylum in what had once been his house.

Across the table from Sirius, playing cards with him was Remus Lupin. Remus looked very tired, though it was probably because of the full moon that had just passed two days ago. His greying hair was cut rather short and he was wearing a shabby sweater that had holes in many places, as well as a few bloodstains, and grey slacks. His amber eyes were, like Sirius', focused on the game, until Harry had entered, but he didn't turn to Harry as quickly as Sirius did; again something that Harry attributed to his fatigue, because he was normally quicker than Sirius was.

Remus had been proclaimed dead after Fenrir Greyback had attacked him at his home in the summer of 1992 – if it had been Voldemorts order or if he simply wanted to finish him off, Remus wasn't sure, but he had nearly succeeded. Remus had been too surprised by the attack to reach his wand and he could therefore only fight with his fists – an area where he was hopelessly inferior to Greyback, who actually preferred this style of fighting over magic. Remus had managed one lucky hit, though, which had sent Fenrir out of commission long enough for him to escape.

Over the next few days, Remus had stayed in hiding, mostly in the woods – they were almost home to him, anyway. When he had heard that he had been declared dead, he had quickly deduced that Greyback had, in fear of Voldemort's rage, somehow pretended that he, Remus, was dead, though he had no idea how Fenrir had managed to lie to Voldemort. Anyway, his 'corpse' had been found two day after the incident and he had been declared dead soon afterwards, probably no-one caring whether he was really dead or not – he was a werewolf, what did he count?

Anyway, Remus knew that he could not resurface now, or even be seen by the wrong people. He had far too many enemies, simply because he was a werewolf, and people would love to kill him on sight and hide his corpse away forever. Therefore, he stayed mostly out of sight, only scouring the dustbins at night to find old newspapers, but living in the woods otherwise. He didn't really have a plan or any idea where to go, but coincidentally he had ended up in the woods rather close to Grimmauld Place (which was close to the edge of London) at full moon. Sirius, who had been sitting at his window, staring at the moon and telling Harry about his times at Hogwarts with the Marauders, had heard Remus howl and had, even though it had been more than a decade that he had last heard, immediately recognized the sound. After quickly explaining the situation to his godson, Sirius had immediately left the house and found Remus.

When Remus had been transformed, he had recognized Sirius in his grim form and his human mind had urged him to simply rip the traitor's throat and be done with it, but Moony was in control and he remembered Padfoot from years ago, and that Padfoot had always been there for him when he had needed him.

The two Marauders had let their animal sides take over for the night, both knowing that the conversation that they would have to have would be uncomfortable. However, they had simply pushed that fact from their minds, playing with each other like in the old times.

The next morning, Remus had been far too tired to do more than verbally attack Sirius was a few hurtful words, allowing the Grim animagus to explain the situation. After a while, Remus believed the story and was ready to live at Grimmauld Place with Sirius – especially if his honorary godson was there.

Since then, Remus had been living at Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place. Initially, he had wanted to contact Dumbledore, now that he could do so, but after he had heard Harry's story, his respect for the old man had all but disappeared. Plus, he didn't really feel the need to go back into a world filled with bigotry, therefore he stayed at Grimmauld Place, where he could spend time with both Harry and Sirius. He turned out to be an excellent cook as well as teacher and he taught Harry in many subjects of magic over the years, while learning alongside with him from Slytherin's library, which Harry had long since wholly transported to Number Twelve.

There were two other people in the room, both to Harry's right. Amelia Bones was just making herself a cup of tea, wearing a blue dress (it was very warm in the room, after all!), her greying hair falling to her shoulders. Her niece Susan was lying on the couch in the corner of the room, reading a book that looked very old, her flaming red hear tucked behind her ears. She was wearing faded jeans, just like Harry and a blue top.

Amelia and Susan had been primary targets for Voldemort almost instantly – well, mostly Amelia, but Susan had been caught in the crossfire. Finally, in the summer of 1992, he had attacked the Ossuary personally, just days after Remus Lupin's 'demise', but in his arrogance, he had made a critical mistake.

After Voldemort had regained his body, he hadn't really gone out to spread fear personally – he had more or less organized things, without actively taking part in the proceedings. Therefore, he had never actually tested his strength before that day, which was lucky for Amelia and Susan, because he would have crushed them otherwise (all the other Death Eaters had been taken out by the protective wards around the Ossuary). This way, however, Amelia could just barely keep him at bay, with Susan shooting hexes at Voldemort that, even though they weren't deadly, were annoying him and causing him to lose his concentration.

Finally, Voldemort had grown tired and he had simply left the house, locking every door in the process, before burning the house to the ground by Fiendfyre, which would have killed Amelia and Susan, had not their brave house-elf used apparated them out of the inferno with seconds to spare, into the woods close to Grimmauld Place, a place where Susan had loved go during her early childhood. Unfortunately, this feat of magic had been too much for the brave elf, which subsequently died from magical exhaustion.

Because this forest was the area where Sirius and Remus spent the full moon, they had warded it – not heavily, but they had set up wards that alerted them of the presence of someone else. When the wards had been triggered, the two men had gone into the forest, where they found the two Bones ladies, exhausted and coughing.

Remus had then, after a small discussion with his fellow Marauder, told them the short form of their stories and had ushered them inside Number Twelve, where they eventually decided to stay for good, with Harry pointing out that Amelia wouldn't be safe if she resurfaced – Voldemort would see her failed death as reason enough to hunt her down until she was dead (Harry had been pretty impressed with himself for coming up with this reasoning – his real motivation was that he would have loved someone his age to talk to). Grudgingly, Amelia had accepted. She was the person that suffered most from not doing anything worthwhile – she had been the head of the DMLE, after all – but with time, she arranged herself. It turned out that she was quite a gifted teacher herself, especially in the field of Ancient Runes and Potions.

These four pairs of eyes were now looking at Harry, who was pretty obviously pissed – or, at the very least, seriously unnerved. After taking a short breath to calm himself, Harry sat down at the table, throwing his sunglasses carelessly into the corner. Without a greeting, he began speaking straight away.

"We're fucked."

* * *

><p>"What do you have to tell me, Palve?"<p>

"Potter has reappeared, Dumbledore is sure of it. He battled Voldemort in Diagon Alley, even countering Fiendfyre, if the stories are to be believed."

"Marvelous. To tell the truth, I had never really given up hope. I knew that he would reappear one day, though I am pleasantly surprised that he has already reached this level of magical proficiency. Do you think that his mindset is the right one?"

"Undoubtedly. From what Dumbledore told me, he apparated from the Alley the moment that Dumbledore appeared there, with a look of fury on his face. According to Longbottom, who was present and who told Albus what happened, he had a look of pure hatred on his face."

"Perfect. It worked just as it should – his disappearance was only a minor setback, it seems. Well, the plan is on track again, no matter if he will join us or not. He may just as well be an unknowing ally, for all I care, as long as he fulfils his task."

"Not like we've been idle, Nero."

"True, though that's mainly due to Janus' work. Speaking of him, where is he?" Nero asked.

"I think he couldn't get away that easily. I mean, I am a spy, so it's not that hard for me to explain longer periods of absence, but nobody suspects Janus of a thing, and his job doesn't exactly lend itself to disappearances."

"True." Nero said, nodding his head and taking a sip of wine. "I trust you will inform him of this development?"

Pavle began chuckling. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Again, little editing happened here, though the final section with the conversation is completely different.


	5. Wartime Council at Number Twelve

**STORY INFORMATION**

**Name: **Puppeteers**  
>Author:<strong> BlackToWhite  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Graphic Violence, Bad Language

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5 – Wartime Council at Number Twelve<strong>

_After taking a short breath to calm himself, Harry sat down at the table, throwing his sunglasses carelessly into the corner. Without a greeting, he began speaking straight away._

"_We're fucked."_

Upon hearing Harry say this, everyone immediately knew that whatever had happened to Harry wasn't anything minor, but a very large problem. Harry often cursed, true (he was teenage boy, after all), but the tone in which he had said it indicated that this wasn't anything typical or easy to resolve.

"What happened?" Remus said, after a few seconds a silence, during which Harry had pulled off his pullover and sat down at the table, next to his godfather.

"I had planned to go Gringotts and then to go to the Muggle World for some shopping, right? Well, that part didn't work out as it should. When I Apparated into the alley, I immediately felt that someone had put up Anti-Apparating Wards around the alley, but somehow I could still Apparate through them, though I have no clue how I did it. Maybe they were just sloppily done or something, though I doubt it." Harry shortly fell into silence, really thinking about this fact for the first time, prompting those that were listening to ask him about what had happened once again.

"Well, when I appeared, I immediately saw why the Wards had been put up. Death Eaters had been attacking the alley, under the command of Voldemort himself."

"Shit." Sirius cursed, the other three echoing his sentiments.

"So, what did you do?" Susan asked, trembling slightly. She had gotten to know Harry very well during the years that they had spent together at Grimmauld Place and was terrified considering the fact that Harry had met Voldemort personally – only the fact that he was sitting in front of her, unharmed, and the fact that she knew that Harry was daily training himself in Duelling alleviated her concern slightly – still, she had no idea how Harry would fare against Death Eaters or even Voldemort himself, because he only had Sirius, Remus and her Aunt Amelia as people to compare to (Susan herself could duel as well, but not nearly as well as these three and Harry… well, Harry could (and did) easily wipe the floor with her).

"Well, initially I just wanted to disappear once again, without drawing attention to me, but I heard Voldemort speaking. He didn't notice me – initially."

Upon hearing Harry add that small piece of information, Susan groaned, just as Amelia and Remus did. Sirius didn't look too happy either, but he seemed to try to keep it to himself – maybe he was just struggling with himself.

"So I take it that Voldemort is aware that you are alive?" He asked shrewdly, hoping against hope that this wasn't the fact. However, to his surprise Harry shook his head, while looking annoyed at the same time.

"Sirius, how could he possibly know that it was me? He hasn't seen me for fifteen years and I sure as hell didn't volunteer my identity to him. Am I wearing a sign that says 'This guy is actually Harry Potter, saviour believed to be dead'?"

"Oh. Right." Sirius said, feeling slightly stupid – whenever he was worried, he tended to not think clearly. Still, it was a sign of the tenseness of the room that no-one made fun of him for this fact. After looking at his godfather again, Harry continued his story.

"From what I could gather, Voldemort had arrived only shortly and before he had joined, many people had fought back against the Death Eaters, because there were quite a few of them lying either dead or unconscious. Anyway, everyone was concentrating on Voldemort – he probably had everyone under a Paralysis Spell, because nobody was as much as moving a muscle.

"He was talking to a teenager, probably a Hogwarts student, that was lying at his feet, who had insulted him openly, from what I could gather. Voldemort then Cruciated him and then said that he was itching to try out a new curse that he had recently acquired. It was a curse that I knew – the Soul Sucker. When he said that, I saw his face for the first time."

Harry gulped and wiped his hand across his sweaty forehead. During the fight, he had suppressed all emotion that he had been feeling, but now, as he was retelling the events, they came crashing down again, despite his Occlumency training (this was probably because he had never had to use Occlumency on such intense emotions before).

"The look on his face, it reminded me – It brought back memories." Nobody needed Harry to continue what he had said. They all knew that even though Harry seemed to be very mature for his age and was perceptive and calculating to a degree that none of them could match, that these skills had come at a very price: his constant abuse at the hands of his relatives. What made the matter worse that Harry had never been able to come to terms with this really – even revenge would probably have helped him, Amelia thought, even though she normally didn't encourage such thoughts. The Dursleys, however, had died shortly after Voldemort had returned in 1992, leaving Harry with no real way to close off this section to his past. Therefore, even when Harry was truly enjoying his life, his memories of these ten years were always there, just beneath the surface, haunting him. Even now, after five years of living away from them and the conditions that they had meant to him, Harry would wake up, drenched up in sweat, because of a nightmare, which in most cases involved his uncle beating him up brutally and then leaving him to die in his cupboard, which then slowly got smaller and smaller until it suffocated him, in addition to the injuries sustained.

When Harry had seen that look of malicious glee and sadism on Voldemort's face, he had simply snapped, as though someone had flicked a switch within him. Gone were all thoughts of staying inconspicuous, all thoughts of keeping in the shadows. Before his eyes, Voldemort's face had merged with Vernon Dursley's face – the murderer of his parents and his tormentor appeared as one and Harry had no other wish than to hurt this creature as bad as possible – Occlumency could only help him very little with that.

However, from everything that Harry knew about Voldemort, he also knew that Voldemort would probably not be easy to kill, especially considering the fact that Harry could not perform the Killing Curse. He did, however, know how to counter the Soul Sucker Curse, something that would greatly unsettle Voldemort as well as cause his reputation to take a hit, even though it wouldn't in any way be great enough to severely damage it. A large part of Harry had demanded something more and had whispered to him to perform the Killing Curse, now that he had the true desire to kill, but eventually Harry had gotten his emotions back under his control, at least rudimentarily, causing him to decided on the course of action that he had taken – to counter the curse and to taunt Voldemort until he snapped.

When Harry had relayed his experience thus far, he made a small pause and got himself something to drink from the fridge, his voice cracking, though he didn't know whether that was due to it being strained or due to the emotional stress that he was under. While he was emptying the bottle of water that he taken, the others were just processing what Harry had told them. Remus was the first to react.

"Are you insane?" He yelled, causing Sirius, Amelia and Susan to jump up a few inches and Harry to drop the bottle that he had just drained, even though he had been expecting such an outburst – just not from Remus, who had been rather calm-tempered during all the time that he known the werewolf.

"Look Remus, I…" Harry tried to reason, but Remus was having none of it.

"You could have died and you're asking me to stay calm? And why did you have to taunt him? Just because of the resemblance to Dursley? Please." Remus scoffed. "As though you'd have the balls to ever speak up to Dursley. You're toying with your life to get over your childish problems as though you're the only one and you –"

Whatever Remus had tried to say, he never finished, as a bolt of raw magic slammed into his stomach knocking him back. The bolt had come from Harry, who was looking at Remus with undisguised rage, magic crackling in the air, causing everyone's hairs to stand up. Harry's green eyes were emanating an anger that caused everyone to avert these green orbs that seemed to promise death.

"Harry, calm the fuck down!" The – previously unheard – sound of Amelia swearing brought Harry back to reality, as he shifted his eyes from the bruised werewolf (good for him, Harry though rather savagely) to the other three, who were all staring at him with varying degrees of fear. Seeing this, Harry's rage left him as quickly as it had come and he slumped down on his chair.

"I'm sorry." He mumbled, though everyone knew that this apology was not aimed towards Remus, but towards those that he had accidentally scared. Sirius and Amelia smiled at him, showing that they didn't hold his outburst against him, while Susan was glaring daggers at the werewolf. Harry meant a lot to her and even though she could understand why Remus was angry, what he had said had been way out of line. None of them had a very good idea of what the Dursleys had subjected Harry to, but they had been able to deduce enough to know that horrible didn't even begin to describe it.

"Remus, what the fuck?" Susan snarled at the downed werewolf, echoing everyone's sentiments. "I can understand that you are upset that Harry would do something like that, but that was uncalled for." Both Amelia and Sirius nodded, with Harry simply looking at Remus venomously, though the rage from earlier had diminished greatly.

"I… I'm sorry." Remus said, while pulling himself up by gripping the table. When he stood once again, albeit shakily. "You're right, Susan, that was uncalled for. It's just… you mean a lot to me and I can't stand the thought of losing you, Harry." Remus said, his voice shaking a little at the end, his eyes conveying that he was sincere in his apology. "I reacted stupidly and I'm sorry." Harry looked at him for a few seconds, before nodding briefly and sitting down again, making the water stain on his t-shirt disappear with a wave of his hand. The others followed suit, with Remus looking at Harry warily, as though he feared that Harry would lash out again – not that he would blame him, mind you.

"Where was I?" Harry said, picking up his story again. "Ah yes, I countered Voldemort's Soul Sucker and then taunted him. Then I…"

"Yes, about that." Amelia interrupted Harry, pulling her hair that was obscuring her vision back behind her head, where she fastened it in a ponytail. "What did you say that enraged him?"

"Well, I said that he could call me Tom, when he asked. That was all I needed for him to go mental on me and to throw around twenty curses at me. Good thing that I spend half an hour every day with the dummies, practicing dodging." Everyone looked rather perturbed at what Harry experienced and the casual way that he was talking about it, but nobody wanted to bring it up, considering the fact that Harry was pretty much on the edge right now and – even though it was unlikely that Harry would react that way without being substantially provoked – nobody wanted to experience what Remus had experienced when being on the receiving end of the teen's ire.

"When that didn't work, Voldemort seemed to be rather pissed off – he probably didn't expect anyone to fight against him, so he tried to end it quickly. He conjured Fiendfyre." This time, nobody could control their reactions – various gasps of horror were heard all across the room, though Susan didn't show any recognition of the term – she could guess that it was bad, though, from the reactions that the other people were showing.

"Ummm… what's Fiendfyre?" She asked, feeling rather stupid.

"Well, it's cursed fire. It can destroy pretty much everything, even many wards – it actually a Summoning Spell, which is what makes it so different from any other fire spell." Harry explained, surprising Sirius and Amelia with this information (Remus had read Slytherin's book on Battle Magic that dealt with fire-related spells already, so he already knew it).

"How is it a Summoning Spell?" Amelia asked.

"It summons the burning souls directly from Hell, which then take the shape of various beasts that usually represent destruction. That's why it's so hard to control, even though the summoning itself is rather simple. However, these souls have been trapped in Hell for god know how long, they'll take any chance to wreak havoc on earth once again – particularly as most of the souls in Hell are heavy sinners anyway, of which many would delight in such acts." Sirius looked impressed and more than a little freaked out by what Harry had just said, whereas Amelia looked rather sceptic.

"Wait, has this been proven? As far I know, no-one had been able to prove that Hell exists." Harry nodded.

"Well, that's only Salazar's theory, but it does fit with the facts of Fiendfyre. It does explain why the mindset has to be so different than for any other fire spell. Salazar also analyzed the energies that the Fiendfyre Curse sets free and they are strikingly similar to those of a Summoning Ritual."

Salazar had found a way to directly "see" magic or at least the elements involved and had used this to be able to analyze many spells and curses. This had also allowed him to counter some of them, such as the Soul Sucker. The spell itself had been around for far longer than even Salazar could trace, but only with what Salazar had found out through his way to visualize magical energy had he managed to find a counter to the immensely complex curse that had defied the understanding of hundreds of Arithmancy Masters and Spell Crafters, if Salazar's notes were to be believed. Unfortunately, the notes on this visualisation had been lost over time, though Harry had no idea why they weren't in the vault, but he had triple-checked the place for them and he had to finally concede that they weren't there. Therefore, the secret as to exactly how Salazar had done this piece of magic would probably forever remain a mystery.

"And, last but not least, the flames of Fiendfyre are able to whisper to those in close proximity, driving them insane with what they tell them. According to rumours, Voldemort has perfected the use of Fiendfyre in a way that he can control the flames so that they are close enough to mentally torment him, without physically harming an inch of his body. Anyway, all of these facts do support Salazar's hypothesis on Fiendfyre, but there has never been any direct proof that it is actually Summoned from Hell." Amelia nodded, satisfied with that answer for the moment.

"So… that's Fiendfyre." Susan sounded a little shaken from Harry's explanation, just as Sirius and Remus. "What… how do you counter it?" She asked – after all, if Harry was here, unharmed, then there had to be counter. Right?

"Well, you can't really counter a Summoning Ritual, that's the problem, because it isn't directly offensive. However, Salazar delved into that as well, though he never had the chance to test his research or to even finish it. At least, that's what I can gather from his notes. Luckily, he did leave behind his Arithmancy work on this field, so I have been able to finish his spell with Remus' help."

Everyone else looked at him in awe, even Remus (Harry hadn't told him that he had finished his work on this project, just that he had been trying to do so, though Remus had previously doubted his success), but Harry just averted their gaze. It hadn't really been as hard, because of his ability to speak Parseltongue, which allowed him to access a branch of magic called Parselmagic. This greatly simplified matters, because there were already various spells in Parselmagic that would counter Summonings by Summoning an opposing force. It hadn't really been that hard to analyse the similarities in their Arithmantic structure and to then apply this to Salazar's spell research on the counter to Fiendfyre. Still, it had taken Harry nearly a year to completely crack this formula, and even now it could only be used by someone who had strong affinity to serpents, even though the spell wasn't Parselmagic itself.

The reason for this was the fact that he could only summon Holy Water in form of a snake, which would only be as powerful and as effective as it was for him for someone with this affinity – he had as of yet to find a general form which would take the form of an animal that was associated with the caster and which in general made it easier to be controlled by the caster, just like Fiendfyre did (though that did not mean that Fiendfyre was easy to control – however, the earlier version of this spell would summon the tortured souls and force them into a certain form, which would be even harder to control for anyone who didn't have a special affinity towards this form, such as the wizard who had supposedly invented Fiendfyre and who had also, according to rumours bred the first Chimaera, who found it far easier to control his form of Fiendfyre, a Chimaera, than anyone else using his spell).

"Yes, well…" Harry said, uncertainly, scratching himself behind his ear. He had become a lot more confident during his life with people that actually cared for him, true, but he doubted that the feeling of unease that he got when everyone within the room focused on him would ever fully go away. Harry's rather uneloquent words, however, had the desired effect: Amelia, Sirius, Remus and Susan became aware of what they were doing and quickly stopped the awe-filled staring, only to blush.

"Anyway, when I successfully combated his Fiendfyre, Voldemort looked rather stunned and a little afraid, I guess, though he hid it very well. He promptly Disapparated, and the smart Death Eaters followed him. A few were left behind though and captured, I guess." Harry concluded his story and looked at the others. The looks on their faces were rather comical – they seemed to want to scold Harry for being so reckless, yet without risking to enrage him like Remus had done, which caused them to stay silent for a good few seconds, until Sirius finally began to speak.

"Well, Harry, I must say that I am very proud of you and the way you handled yourself, though – " He hesitated for a short moment, before continuing his line of thought. "Wasn't it a bit, you know, foolhardy to test a brand-new spell against something as dangerous as Fiendfyre?" Sirius rushed out the last bit and it was all that Harry could do not to laugh at Sirius' constipated facial expression.

"Relax, Sirius." Harry said and hugged his godfather briefly, but rather strongly. "Just because I lashed out at Moony when he fully deserved it doesn't mean that you have tread on glass around me. Just be careful when talking about… certain things, and we're good, okay?" During the last part, Harry's eyes left Sirius and turned to Remus, who quickly nodded. He opened his mouth quickly afterwards, probably to apologize again, but Harry bade him to be silent with a wave of his hand and smiled at him, showing him that it was, in fact, really okay. He then turned serious again and turned to his godfather, who was watching him, just like the Bones ladies were doing.

"Well, dearest Paddy, to answer your question – yes, it was a little foolhardy, but really, the risk was minimal. Have you forgotten that I had been able to punch through the wards? If the situation would have turned out to be less favourable, I could have always disappeared." Sirius nodded, conceding his point. Amelia, however, wouldn't be as easily deterred.

"How could you be sure that you would be able to punch through the wards again? For all you could have known, it might have been a fluke." She asked quite sternly.

"Oh shit." Harry paled. "I hadn't thought about that." He admitted, rather subdued. It was true – he had, in a rare act of arrogance, assumed that he was strong enough to break the wards, only because he had done so again, even though he had had no way of knowing whether they had been changed, reset or strengthened. Had his spell not worked, he might have found himself in a rather bad situation.

"Hmph." Amelia huffed, crossing her arms. "Well, I suppose it's rather useless to scold you right now, because what's done is done, but do try to think a little more in the future, okay?" Her tone softened. "You mean a lot to everyone here and we would hate to lose you." Harry simply nodded, thoroughly chastised.

"What did you do then?" Remus asked, sensing that the topic was closed and therefore wanting to change it, in order to escape the rather gloomy mood that was currently setting upon the room. "Did you just leave, or did something else happen?"

"Well…" Harry said, becoming even more uncomfortable. What he was about to tell them was the reason that his cover might be blown and he was anxious as to what their reactions would be. "I wanted to leave, but then I saw this guy. He was about my age, probably shopping for school supplies. He looked familiar and I – I went over to talk to him. It was Neville Longbottom."

Silence met this declaration, which Amelia broke first.

"Neville? He was fighting?"

"Do you know him?" Sirius asked him, clearly sounding surprised. She had never mentioned anything that would indicate that – but then, Amelia rarely talked about her life before the attack, for whatever reason, and the inhabitants of Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place had learned not to pry over the years.

"I was good friends with his grandmother, Augusta Longbottom. We had tea together once every month or so." Amelia said, her sounding very reminiscing of the past. "I really liked her. She wasn't the easiest person to warm up towards, but once you had, you could discover a very wicked sense of humour and a strong feeling of justice – unlike many of my other acquaintances, I might add." She finished, slightly bitterly.

"Augusta Longbottom? An older woman with a very prominent jaw and a scar on the left cheek?" Harry asked, interested. Amelia nodded in confirmation.

"She was there, too. Neville was just pulling her unconscious body from underneath an unconscious Death Eater, when I approached him. Don't worry – she wasn't badly injured." Harry added, when he saw that Amelia was processing to open her mouth.

"What did you tell Neville?" Susan asked, probably more interested in the boy than the adults, as she had – at least briefly – known him, as Augusta had brought him along to the Ossuary once or twice, when she was having a cup of tea with her Aunt Amelia. She didn't remember a lot of Neville, true, but she did know that Neville had been a very nice and rather cute boy back then, even though he had been a bit shy.

"I assured him that she was going to be alright and complimented him on his actions during the battle – I had just seen him perform the Witches Hammer when I Apparated in." Harry said, which brought up a fair share of disbelief and respect. "That's when I screwed up, though." He continued, feeling a little stupid once again. It was just the fact that he recognized Neville from one of the few photos that he from his parents, which featured his parents and him along with Frank and Alice Longbottom, who were holding baby Neville, all six smiling happily (or in the babies' case, goofily) at the camera. The fact that he had finally seen one of the people that had ties with his parents, small they might be, had shortly suppressed the logical side of his brain, which had been screaming for him to get the hell out of there.

"I used his name and he noticed it. He asked me how I knew it and I told him that my parents had known his parents." This proclamation was met with two very harsh curses, courtesy of the Marauders and two looks of disbelief from Susan and Amelia – Harry, who was normally so calm, collected and eloquent, would make such a blunder?

"I had just fought the most dangerous Dark Lord of the century, okay?" Harry said, now slightly annoyed. "Give me a break." For some reason, he didn't bring up what reaction Neville had cause within him, though he couldn't have explained why he acted that way.

"Well, you do have a point." Remus said, nodding. "That's not an everyday experience, but that doesn't change the fact that it would have been better to not tell Neville – the wrong people, who could work out who you are, might find out this piece of information, like Dumbledore." The werewolf said, his eyes flashing amber at the mention of the man that had condemned his pseudo-godson to suffer at the hands of the Dursleys.

"Too late now." Harry said, grinding his teeth together. Whenever Dumbledore came up, it would quickly kill the mood – if only Harry had suffered at his hands, then he might have forgiven the aged wizard, had he been given a very good incentive to do so, but Dumbledore had also let Sirius go to prison without a trial, even though he had known the identity of the Secret Keeper, as Sirius had told him. This fact had irrevocably cemented his dislike for the Chief Warlock of the Wizengamot and he had sworn to avoid this politically powerful man at all costs, because even though he was Lord Slytherin, Dumbledore's was – especially now – more popular than ever, because of his leading role in the First Wizarding War. To go up against him would be political suicide. "He arrived at the scene when I was talking with Neville – one of his lackeys had probably informed him. The moment that I saw him, I Disapparated, but he had already seen me talk to Neville. He's probably getting the details from him as we speak."

Silence met this proclamation. After what seemed to be an eternity of silence, Sirius tentatively raised his voice.

"Can we be sure that he knows of your identity?" Sirius asked – he didn't really believe the opposite, true, but maybe…

"Yes." Remus said, his eyes hardening again. True, Dumbledore had allowed him to attend Hogwarts, but everything that he had done to the ones that Remus considered to be family had made it impossible for the werewolf to think positively of his former Headmaster, no matter how much he tried – all the evidence pointed toward the fact that he had left Sirius to die in Azkaban and Harry to suffer at Number Four, Privet Drive. "Dumbledore, whatever his faults, isn't dumb. Frank and Alice didn't have a lot of friends – there was the Potters, Marlene McKinnon, Dorcas Meadowes, Benjy Fenwick and your parents, Susan." Remus said, nodding towards the young redhead. "The Potters and the Bones were the only ones who had children."

"Okay, Dumbledore knows that Harry is alive, I think we can agree on that." Susan said, blinking repeatedly, as though holding back tears. Even after so many years, the death of her parents was a sensitive topic, but she didn't really like to bring it up, because, at least, she had had someone to look after her and her life hadn't been that bad, especially when compared to Harry's. If Harry could talk about his past without breaking out in tears, then she could as well, she had vowed herself. "The question is: what will he do?"

This was met with silence, everyone pondering the question. Truth was that no-one knew Dumbledore well enough to be able to correctly predict what path of action he might take, now that he knew that Harry was still alive.

"Well…" Harry said slowly. "It's possible that he won't do anything, but it's unlikely. I doubt that he would send Sirius to Azkaban, so that he would be able to place me at the Dursleys if he didn't have a plan of some sort."

"That's true." Amelia conceded. "Albus is cunning, more than one would give him credit for. There has to a plan somewhere, but I don't have the faintest idea what it could be." She had to admit. Silence descended upon the room once again, as the people once again realized just how little they knew about Albus Dumbledore and what they could do about it.

"Well, we don't know what Dumbledore is going to do and that's crucial. Voldemort's easy to predict, he's probably fuming at the moment and sending out his people to find out about the person that could battle him." Sirius summarized, raising his glass of whiskey in a manner of a toast towards his godson, who tried to grin back, but it looked forced.

"That sounds accurate." Amelia reasoned. "I doubt that Voldemort will find out a lot – we've been covering our trails rather well, I would say."

"Yeah. But Dumbledore's the bigger factor anyway, because he knows that I'm still alive and... well, whatever he's going to do with that fact won't be good. Therefore, we have to find out what the old guy's planning." Harry said, looking determined, a sentiment that the others mirrored – after all, their life could very well depend on this.

Remus briefly thought if it wouldn't be the best to simply leave Magical Britain behind, as he had done a plethora of times during the last few years. However, he came to the same conclusion that he had always arrived at: it wouldn't work. Ever since the beginning of the war, every form of Magical Transport had been monitored, forms of travel that were leaving the country even more so (travel within Britain could only be tracked much harder, since there was so much more of it going on). Signature Scanners, which could identify witches and wizards by their magical aura, had even been installed on Muggle vehicles, camouflaged as surveillance cameras when Voldemort had been starting to bring foreign Death Eaters into the country that way (the authorities had been puzzled, until a Death Eater had been caught and questioned during a raid, who had revealed this tactic to the Ministry), which meant that travelling the Muggle way was out. In addition, none of the five owned properties outside of Britain and to acquire one would only leave a paper trail, that someone with Dumbledore's powers (he was the head of the ICW as well) could probably easily trace, especially since it become mandatory to record the Magical Signature of the buyer when a Wizarding home was purchased sometime in the fifties. Sure, a Muggle house could be bought, but then it would attract quite a lot of attention to Ward it sufficiently.

No, on the whole, it was impractical, if not downright impossible to leave the country. In addition, as luck would have it, the other properties that Harry owned were in abysmal condition and it would take far too long to make them habitable again, such as the bungalow in the Forest of Dean. Plus, he doubted that he could Ward any place more effectively than Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place, which had the added bonus that it was only a very short trip to Gringotts and to both Magical and Muggle shopping districts, something which the inhabitants had to do personally ever since Kreacher's demise three years ago.

Remus sighed. As much as he hated the fact that he was practically living directly in the Headmaster's territory, so to speak, they would be hard-pressed to find a better hiding place. The combination of the Fidelius Charm, the Secrecy Charm, the Unplottable Charms, the Anti-House-Elf-Wards and the Intent Wards that would trigger the Black Family Wards, which consisted of Terror Wards (which worked like a Dementor on someone foolish enough to trigger them), Gravity Wards (which increased the gravity around the target hundredfold, rendering him immobile) and Draining Wards (which constantly sapped away magical power, something that could even lead to a very painful death) made Number Twelve, Grimmauld Place one of the safest places in Britain. To leave the place would be very foolish indeed, Remus conceded, especially as they had everything (even a relatively large forest area that was part of the house) they needed to live rather comfortably – it was just oppressing to be confined to one house, no matter how large it was, sometimes.

"Hello, Remus! You there?" A rather irate sounding Susan Bones was waving a hand in front of his face, snapping the werewolf out of his thoughts.

"Sorry, I was just thinking… what were you saying?" Remus said, blushing a little when he saw the annoyed looks on both Amelia's and Harry's faces.

"Do you have any idea how to find out what Dumbledore is planning to do right now?" Harry asked rather slowly, as though he was talking to a rather stupid child, a tone that annoyed Remus greatly, though he wisely kept his mouth shut, thinking about the question instead. Suddenly, out of nowhere, it hit him.

"Actually, yes, I have an idea. Here's what we'll do…"

* * *

><p>The first thing that she noticed was that her head was pounding, like a sledgehammer. The bright lights weren't helping, either. They seemed to bore into her head with an unmatched intensity.<p>

She dimly wondered where she was, but the pain that shot through her head alarmed her of the fact that she was not capable of even these simple thoughts.

If only someone would turn off the light…

"Ah, Miss Granger." A female voice that sounded vaguely familiar spoke to her left. "You are awake, I see."

Was she? Probably, otherwise she wouldn't be thinking – would she?

"Am I?" She wanted to ask, but her throat was completely dry and she couldn't utter a single word. When that had failed, she opened her eyes with all her willpower, to be able to show at least some sign of reaction.

She immediately regretted it, for the light shone even brighter into her eyes, but after a few seconds, she had adjusted enough to the brightness that she could make out that she was lying in a bed in what appeared to a hospital ward – the Hospital Wing of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, she recognized. A short but slender woman was standing next to her bed, eying her carefully, holding a glass of water in her hand.

"Drink." The woman – Madam Pomfrey – handed her the glass and she took it, her fears that she would be too weak to hold the glass unfounded. She quickly drank most of the water down and was relieved to feel that her throat moistening again.

"Thanks." She managed to croak out towards Madam Pomfrey, who only nodded in return. She drained the rest of the glass, then set it onto her nightstand, before slumping back into her pillow. "What happened?"

"Well, I think that Mr. Longbottom would be more qualified to answer that in detail, but I can tell you that you passed out due to blood loss. It was a quite severe case and you are quite lucky that you are still alive. Had you been found fifteen minutes later, then you would have probably died."

Hermione idly wondered why that didn't surprise her more. But then, she had already fought the Death Eaters once, in Hogsmeade, where she had been more than surprised that she hadn't had as much as a scratch when she had fully expected the Death Eaters to be – well, deadly. This time – her memory was slowly returning – she had been fighting the Inner Circle, so it didn't really come that much of a surprise to her that she had nearly died – she was just grateful that she hadn't.

"You should take utmost care for the next few days, Miss Granger. No overexertion, or you're back here faster than you can say 'injury'." Madam Pomfrey told her sternly. Hermione simply nodded – she doubted that she would overexert herself in the next few days anyway, if how weak she was feeling was any indication to her physical state at the moment.

"I will take care, Madam Pomfrey." She said dutifully.

"If you are feeling fine, then you may leave." The matron said. "Physically, everything's okay, even though I had to use four of my Blood Replenishing Potions on you. Just take it easy for a while." Hermione just nodded and left the Hospital Wing as quickly as she could.

* * *

><p>She found Neville sitting on the couch of the Gryffindor Common Room, staring into the fire. He didn't look as though he had slept during the night. However, when Hermione entered the room, all fatigue seemed to leave him and a smile spread across his face. He quickly stood up and crossed the room, pulling the brunette into a hug.<p>

"I'm so glad that you're all right." Neville mumbled into her hair. "Your wounds… I was so scared." He finished, as he released her from his hug.

"I'm alright." Hermione said, rather unnecessary as she was standing in front of him and she was okay, but still, her warm voice comforted Neville. After a moment of companionable silence, Hermione sat down on a couch again, with Neville sitting next her. They stared into the fire for a while, until Hermione spoke quietly.

"What happened? I think I passed out during the battle."

Neville nodded and, after staying silent for such a long time that Hermione was just about to repeat her question, began telling her the whole story – how he had fought Dolohov, Voldemort's appearance, Ashton and of course about the saviour, who Dumbledore thought to be Harry Potter.

After he had finished, silence reigned again.

"How do you think Dumbledore was able to figure out the saviour's identity?" Hermione asked her best friend.

"I have no clue." Neville said, while yawning rather spectacularly. It seemed as though his tiredness was returning, now that he was sure that Hermione was alright. Hermione knew that she had to urge him to go to bed, because Neville would probably never do so on his own, but she first wanted to hear what he had left to say. "But… Harry – if it was him – seemed to be really pissed off when he left, only because he had seen Dumbledore. I can't really understand that, you know? Not even Voldemort had provoked such a response – I mean, his whole demeanour change, it turned like really. Why would he hate Dumbledore that much?"

"No idea." Hermione echoed his previous answer, apparently deep in thought. "But maybe… maybe Dumbledore knew that Harry would be mad at him and that helped him to identify him. I mean, off the top of my head I can't think of anyone that would fight Voldemort and hate Dumbledore – those two seem to be rather exclusive, you know?" Neville simply nodded – when thinking about it that way, it made sense. But that would mean –

"Wait. That means that whatever Dumbledore did that Harry hates him – do you think that that was the reason that Harry didn't come here, to Hogwarts and disappeared instead? I mean, if you're right, that he hates Dumbledore, then he probably wouldn't want to come to a school were Dumbledore is Headmaster, would he?"

"That's true. But what would warrant such a response?" To this, none of the two had an idea – what could the Leader of the Light have done.

"Well, it might not even have been Harry Potter." Neville said, though he didn't sound convinced. "Dumbledore himself didn't seem sure, after all. It might be someone else." Hermione nodded, but neither she nor the Longbottom heir truly believed that – if Dumbledore had voiced such a hypothesis, then he would probably have been pretty damn sure of it. But the question remained – how could the Leader of the Light hated to this extent by the Boy-Who-Lived?

Neither of the two came up with a reasonable idea and it wasn't long before both Neville and Hermione had fallen asleep on the couch, amidst all their pondering.

* * *

><p>It was almost too easy.<p>

The Wizarding Community had been at war with the Dark Lord Voldemort for more than four years, since 1975, and the security measures at the St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Injuries and Maladies were still pathetic – a fact that Voldemort could have easily exploited already, for an attack on all those that were currently recovering from whatever injury they were suffering would deal a huge blow to the Light Side and the general morale of nearly every citizen.

After he had finished his mission, he might even give Voldemort the tip to do just that, he idly though while ascending the staircase to the fifth floor, which housed the patients suffering from Spell Damage.

Still, first things first. He had a job to do and Nero would probably be rather disappointed, should he fail to complete it, especially considering just how easy it was. Even he, who was confident in his own abilities in most cases, would have though this mission to be far harder, but the way it was going, he would have thought that the Healers were wholly ignorant of the threat that was looming outside. Did they think that Voldemort wouldn't attack a hospital because of some kind of respect?

Well, if that was case, then it was both wrong and stupid. He knew that Voldemort would do whatever he would benefit from, respect be damned.

While he had been exploring this train of thought, his feet had brought him to the fifth level of St. Mungo's, where his target was working. He quickly Disillusioned himself, just to be on safe side, even though he was pretty sure that he could fight his way through the Healers too – after all, they were Healers and not Aurors and he knew that he was pretty much on par with most Aurors, except maybe for the legendary Mad-Eye Moody.

Not wanting to spend unnecessary time, he Stunned the first Healer that he saw and then quickly delved into his mind.

Inside the Healer's mindscape, he quickly noticed a that a part of it was better mentally protected than anything that he had ever seen, which unnerved him for a moment, until he remembered what his mother had told him (she had worked at St. Mungo's too), when he had asked her about her patients that she was looking after. She had been reluctant to answer and after he had prodded for a while, she had told him the reason for that: that the Healers had to swear an Oath to never divulge information on their patients without the patients explicit approval.

Gathering that this protected area was the knowledge on the patients that the Healer could not divulge, he discarded this area – the information that he was looking for wasn't there anyway and it actually made his search easier, because he now knew where he didn't have to look.

After what seemed an eternity of mental assault on the Healer (though only about a minute had passed in real life), he had finally found the information that he was looking for. He pulled his mental probe from the Healer's mind and, after a short moment of indecision as of what to do with him, he quickly killed him with a Cutting Curse and transfigured the corpse into a paper napkin, which he threw into the nearest rubbish bin, after he had vanished the blood from the floor. He didn't quite manage to vanish it all, but he doubted that someone would notice it, and even if they did, they would simply think that someone had spilled a blood sample or something and vanish it without a second thought (the Healers had special blood-vanishing charms that he did not know, which was why he had only vanished what was needed as to not arouse suspicion, as blood was one of the most magically taxing substances to vanish with a simple _Evanesco_).

Having taken care of this problem, he Disillusioned himself again, as the charm had slight faded, though luckily no-one had come by who had noticed it. Now, nearly invisible once again, he started towards his goal again, even more cautious now. He had a mission to fulfil and he would be damned if he failed right now.

* * *

><p>After about five minutes, he had reached the Paracelsus-Ward, where, according to the Healer that he had killed, his target worked, even though the distance was very small – but then, he had always been cautious and he had looked around every corner twice, in order to avoid detection.<p>

As he entered the ward, the first thing that he noticed was that the Paracelsus-Ward was, unlike all the other rooms and sections that he had come across, relatively empty, with only two people occupying it – an elder man with shaggy white hair and bloodshot eyes, who was currently standing beside the bed of a patient, taking notes on a clipboard, and his target, a young and very beautiful woman with a kind face, a great figure and fiery red hair.

Careful now, he thought. The elder man didn't look like much of a threat, but he knew that his target was a very skilful duelist, possibly even capable of outmatching him – and even if he could beat her, then it would probably take far too long. No, his only chance was the element of surprise.

When the woman and turned his back towards him again and elder man wasn't looking her way, he quickly crossed the threshold of the door and sent a silent Stunning Spell towards his target, who didn't have a chance to defend herself. She silently crumpled, without the elder Healer noticing at all.

Success!, he thought, sighing mentally – no matter how easy this mission had been, he was still relieved that his first task had gone off without a hitch. In celebration of this fact, he brought down the elder Healer with a Cruciatus Curse, after he had quickly silenced the room. His screams were like music to his ears and he would have loved to continue the torture for a far longer period of time, but he still had to deliver the target to his boss. Therefore, he quickly dispatched of the healer with a Killing Curse and then used the portkey that had been given to him, that took him out of St. Mungo's and back to Nero.

* * *

><p>"Well?" Nero asked, sounding rather bored.<p>

He was sitting in the room into which Palve had portkeyed with the unconscious form of the witch that he had been after in tow, drinking a rather aged bottle of Ogden's Firewhiskey, while he was writing something on the parchment that he had in his lap. The room itself was dimly lit and one could just make out the bookshelves on the wall of the room, which were stacked to the brim with books, manuscripts and parchments in all shapes and sizes.

"I've brought her." Palve said, pointing to the unmoving body at his feet. Nero simply nodded.

"Do you want to stay?" His question was met with a nod, something that Nero had expected. Upon looking at the body, Nero smiled, as he donned a Death Eater mask before he raised his wand to revive her, registering from the corner of his eyes that his companion was doing the same. Sure, he could rip what he wanted from her mind, but this way would be far more entertaining.

"_Ennervate._"

It was the sixteenth of November, 1979 as Lily Potter (formerly Evans) awoke, staring into the empty eyes of a Death Eater Mask.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> Again, I changed the final part a little, not really much of the rest. Though since I saw that a problem the first time, I will put this very clearly: LILY IS NOT ALIVE. That part takes place in another time, in November 1979. Get used to it, that will happen quite a few times in this fic.


	6. Beginning of the End

**STORY INFORMATION**

**Name: **Puppeteers**  
>Author:<strong> BlackToWhite  
><strong>Rating: <strong>NC-17/M  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>Graphic Violence, Bad Language  
><strong>Author's Note:<strong> This is where it starts to get really dark and angsty and stuff. Yes, there will be a lot of death in this fic. You have been warned.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 6 – Beginning of the End<strong>

Pavle – or, as he was better known to the majority of his associates, Severus Snape, didn't even break stride upon approaching the regal gates that closed the driveway of an impressive manor house. He simply stretched out his left arm, and the gate turned to black smoke as soon as he touched it, only to solidify again behind him. He smirked – most of it was show, but he had to admit that it looked pretty cool. After all, there was nothing wrong with a little show – he'd be a hypocrite if he said that, considering his cape-billowing charm that he used to intimidate the little brats that he so hated to teach. All right, there his goal was to spread fear, whereas this enchantment was probably designed to make people feel awed instead of afraid, but you couldn't deny the similarities.

His black boots – black like everything that he was wearing, except for the white skull mask, though he wasn't exactly wearing that, he just had it in his right hand – crunched softly on the small pebbles which were the driveway to the luxurious Malfoy Manor that lay sprawled in front of him. He idly wondered exactly why a magical manor would have a driveway – it's not like people were coming in the car, but after a few seconds it made sense – visitors would be forced to walk along the driveway, as Anti-Apparation wards extended up to the gate itself, which gave them both an opportunity to be suitably impressed by the Malfoy wealth and to remind them of their inferiority towards to the Manor Lords, who were not bound be these restrictions, which immediately created somewhat of a divide, with the Malfoys sitting comfortably on top. He snorted – typical Lucius. That attitude was exactly why he hated the blonde ponce so much, even though he didn't show it. Well, that and his attempt to rape him in third year, but the less said and thought about that, the better, Snape thought.

The tall, dark green doors, decorated with the Malfoy crest, swung open silently as he approached, and his lips curled upward in a sneer. Another parlour trick to impress visitors, no doubt, not that it was a particularly difficult one, mind you. All you needed were two house elves, waiting behind the doors, and there you were. He strode through the regal hallways, made of black and dark green marble, until he came to another set of doors. This one didn't open on its open, so he pushed it open, using the silver knocker in the mouth of the snake carved into the wood of the door.

Behind the door was a meeting wrong of sorts, though he recognized that, before the Dark Lord had taken residence here, it had been the dining room. At the far end, behind the Dark Lord himself a small fireplace was burning, just as two others, to his left and to his right were. They offered the sole sources of light of the room, making the large room look even bigger than it in reality was, due to the elongated shadows that they cast all over the place. Rather close to the door through which he had entered, he saw the low-ranked Death Eaters, obviously sitting further from their master than those that had already gained his favour – or, to be more accurate, had not yet lost their favour with the master, like that filthy rat Wormtail, Snape's stuck-up bratty godson that was more Gryffindor than Ronald Weasley had been and his mother, who looked quite beautiful in the light, as her ever-present sneer wasn't visible in the low light the room offered. He eyed Wormtail with disgust, but gave both Narcissa and Draco a courteous nod. Not that he actually cared – there wasn't a single person inside this room that he didn't loathe with every fibre of his being – but it was expected of him, especially since Lucius'... _unfortunate _demise.

Voldemort lazily pointed to the seat at his right, indicating for Snape to sit there, so he passed the long table on the side without Bellatrix and took his seat, not dignifying any of the other Death Eaters with any visible reaction. Only when he had taken his seat did Voldemort ask him for any news in Dumbledore's camp – he was obviously interested in Dumbledore's theories on the 'Tom', the wizard that had forced the Dark Lord to retreat in Diagon Alley two ago, though nobody knew if that was because he was clueless himself or if he merely wanted to verify his suspicions, and it was better for their continued health that nobody asked, either.

Like he had discussed with Nero, he held nothing back and told the Dark Lord about Dumbledore's theories that the person in question was Harry Potter. While most of the Death Eaters didn't seem to put too much stock into that suggestion, Voldemort didn't dismiss it, and Snape knew why, though, in the Dark Lord's camp, only he and Voldemort knew the particular reason: the prophecy. Since it did designate Potter as the one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord, it was not really that much a leap. Avery's exclamation of "My Lord, surely no mere teenager, and a half-blood at that, could defeat you in a duel!" therefore earned him only a quick bout of the Cruciatus and a warning to not talk about things that he didn't understand.

"Potter..." The Dark Lord mused, petting Nagini as she snaked around his slim torso and looking lost in thought, though everyone knew that he was still more aware than they could ever hope to be, despite his relaxed demeanour. "Tell me, Severus, is it also true that the boy seems to loathe our esteemed Leader of the Light?" Voldemort cocked his eyebrows and his lips curved into a smile, but his eyes themselves showed no humour whatsoever.

"It seems so. From what I understand, Dumbledore placed him with abusive muggles when he was young and send Hagrid to fetch him. Potter somehow convinced the oaf that was fine on his own and has, since then, never been seen again. Dumbledore seems to think that Potter blames him for his childhood neglect, or at least that's reason he gave. Fact is solely that Potter's face, according to Longbottom, almost immediately scrunched into hatred, before Potter apparated, calling our esteemed Headmaster a motherfucker... if it was Potter, that is." Snape concluded his report, not mentioning that Dumbledore seemed to really regret what he had done, and not only because it seemed to have cost him the weapon of the prophecy, because that would just open cans of worms that he no interest whatsoever in opening.

"Interesting." Voldemort mused, more to himself than to anyone else, though he was perfectly aware that everyone was hanging onto his every word. "Have a look for Potter, and if you can find him, bring him here. I doubt that he will join us, given his performance in Diagon Alley, but nevertheless, he intrigues me, and if needed, I want to be the one that kills him, is that understood?" Most of his Death Eaters nodded eagerly – nobody wanted to get into a duel with the teen that had apparently forced their Lord to retreat, so these instructions sat just fine with them. Only Dolohov and Bellatrix looked a little put out, but knew better than to argue with the Dark Lord's direct orders.

"Also, Draco, I know that neither the Headmaster or the Longbottom boy are close associates of yours - " "Thank Merlin!" Narcissa mumbled. " - but if you do come across any additional information, I trust that I shall be informed swiftly?" "Of- of course, My Lord." Draco stammered slightly, fear evident in his eyes. A few other Death Eaters sniggered, but otherwise stayed silent.

"Speaking of information," Voldemort continued smoothly, silencing any amusement sprung from Draco's discomfort. "what can you tell me about this boy, Severus?" The Dark Lord waved his hand and a three-dimensional image of the boy that had openly defied him two days ago sprung into existence above the center of the table. Snape wasn't surprised, he had expected this question, but for once, wasn't exactly sure what to say. Neither Dumbledore nor Nero and Janus had any idea what would have driven the Ravenclaw student into such an open act of defiance, and he said so. Voldemort didn't look too pleased, but didn't press the point further, instead he turned to Draco.

"I definitly want some information on this boy, particularly anything on why the hell he would do something like this. Oh, he'll die for what he's done, but such a piece of information would be quite useful - or, at least quite amusing – to spice up his final hours of existence, would it not?" By the time he had finished, a truly sadistic gleam covered his face, making everyone shiver slightly, except for Snape, though he pretended to – if something was done by everyone simultaneously, then it had already been determined to be a safe course of action and to deviate from that wasn't a particularly smart course of action.

Draco, now white as a sheet, nodded affirmatively, his eyes not quite meeting Voldemort's eyes. This seemed to satisfy Voldemort – on other days, Draco would have received quite a bit of apin for his disrespect, but not today. Silently thanking his lucky stars, Draco focused his mind on the meeting again.

"Alright, now this is still a while away, and I guarantee that there will be other demonstrations of our power before it as well. However, it would still be prudent to being the planning of our next great raid as soon as possible. Bellatrix and Mulciber, you're in charge. You know the target. I want information on how best enter the building, which high-profile targets will be were on the... 27th of December and how we can the access them the easiest way, as well as any points of tactical advantage that can be used to ambush the Aurors once they arrive." The tone in his voice, even though he offered no words of farewell, made it obvious that the meeting was over. All the Death Eaters quietly stood up, walked up to their master's luxurious chair – more of a throne, really – knelt down and kissed the hem of his robes before leaving the room. Snape went last (except for Bellatrix and Mulciber, who seemed to be engrossed in planning already) and only Nero's special Occlumency instruction made it possible for him to hide his revulsion as he fell onto his knees in front of the Dark Lord, kissing his hem as shortly as he dared, before leaving rather abruptly. The evening was far from over for him – Dumbledore would want to know what had happenend, as would Nero and Janus, so he would have to hurry.

* * *

><p>"Alright, spit it out, Wolfie. What's your grand plan?" Susan asked, as always a little annoyed by Remus' tendency to announce grandly and to then not say a thing until someone asked him. Heaven forbid that he offered something on his own!<p>

"Alright, alright!" Remus said, raising his hands in a mock surrender. "We sneak Kreacher onto the Hogwarts staff." After being met with incredulous and some are-you-barmy looks, Remus realised that they might need a while to realise the genius of his plan. He was just about to explain the finer intricacies of his plan when Harry found his voice again.

"I really hope that there's more to your plan than that, 'cause if not, the school year will probably be over by the time that I've explained all the faults to you." He said, slight irritation in his voice. Before any of the others had the time to make their opinions known, he explained in more detail.

"House-elves can go pretty much everywhere, right? With no one questioning them?" The others nodded and rolled their eyes, that wasn't the part they had problems with. "And Kreacher, when we slip him in, will not even be bound to the orders of the Headmaster, so even if, like, Order meetings or Dumbledore's office are out of bounds, Kreacher can go there without a problem and no one will ever be any wiser."

"Yes, Moony, we figured as much. But – and here's the but – that's not the part that we were having problems with."

"Oh stuff it Paddy, if you'd just let finish, then you'd see what I'm on about. Anyway, here's the main part of the plan: we don't just sneak in, we use him to replace another elf. Brilliant, eh?" This time it was Amelia who voiced her concern.

"I've never seen an elf as old as Kreacher before, and that includes in the employ of Hogwarts. Not many people pay attention to house-elves, but even to those, Kreacher will stick out like a sore thumb."

"Ah, but he won't. We'll just cast a glamour on him that Harry locks in Parsletongue. Then, no one but him can undo it – he'll be able to copy the replaced elf's exact likeness." Harry had to admit that it was starting to look like a decent plan, though he wondered while Moony sometimes just had to drag out his explanations to the point where Harry was assuming that he was making a show out of it, he'd never know. And anyway, there was still one glaring part missing in Remus' scheme.

"And how do you expect to grab yourself a Hogwarts house-elf?" Susan asked the werewolf when it became that no-one else was going to do so.

"Easy." Remus retorted smugly. "We call him here – well, we let Kreacher do that – and then... well, we'll see. We might just stun him, or break his link with Hogwarts, or even employ him here, our house-elf, will, be then, hopefully working in Hogwarts." The other four thought it over, and Harry was to first to raise his voice.

"I don't like it, Remus." He said, frowning. "Most of it is sound, but I have no idea what we're going to do to the elf that Kreacher is replacing. House-elf magic is something that no-one knows a lot about, and if our containment fails, then this could all blow up in our faces."

"Besides, how do we get around the fact that Kreacher will not be a Hogwarts elf and thus incapable of hearing a summons from anywhere in the castle, as a house-elf in Hogwarts employ should be able to do?" Remus seemed to have overlooked that part of the plan, but Harry stepped in here.

"No problem. It's not going to be easy, but with the help of Remus I can lay live ward into Kreacher, one that scans a certains, given area for a precise action." "Like someone saying a name!" Susan responded and Harry nodded. "Exactly. Now we just need to know the volumen of Hogwarts and the name of the elf that we are impersonating. The greatest problem is that we can only start the ward once we have the other elf, the one who's name we need to layer in, and after that, the ward needs two days the be completed, which would mean said elf would not be in his job those two days."

Sirius groaned. "Yeah, definitely a really good plan that we're having."

Remus frowned, as did Harry. "Oh, shut up. Yeah, it needs some refining, but it just might work, So unless you have any better ideas, I'd appreciate it if you stopped whinging." Sirius only nodded, feeling himself taken back to the days of O.W.L. and N.E.W.T. Exams, when Remus had been in a similar mood to anyone who "antagonised" him (well, it was more like everyone who TALKED to him), and for a moment, Sirius' heart was filled the warmth of a family and those great times that Hogwarts that would so soon have to come to an end.

It was Amelia who asked the next question. "How can we make sure that he behaves?" She asked, thinking back to how Kreacher had been when they had first come here. "We won't be there to... positively condition him".

Surprisingly (or not – Kreacher was his childhood elf, after all), Sirius knew how to get through Kreacher's thick skin, which was hard, considering the fact that he enjoyed most of the corporal punishments inflicted upon him. "Telll him if he interprets one of our orders creatively, we give him to Remus on full-moon, turning him into a Werelf, and I doubt that his mistress would like to be served by such an unworthy mongrel as a Were." Yup, the others mentally agreed that that would shut him up.

* * *

><p>After about two days of careful planning, they felt that they were as ready as they'd ever be. After Susan had, quite brilliantly, pointed out that they just needed the name of the elf, so why didn't they call it two days earlier, used the information to construct the live ward and then call for him again? It really was quite simple and it angered Harry and Remus, who were discussing temporal portkeys and Runic Chronomanipulation in order to circumvent this particular problem, a little, but they quickly got on with it.<p>

Now, they stood in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place, all six of them, if you counted Kreacher, who was already glamoured to look like the elf that he was to replace, with a Parsletongue lock imbued into the charm. The live ward – which Harry had taken to call simply "scanner" had just been sucessfully bound to him. Now his magic would guide him wherever someone said his new name, just like any other house-elf in the employ of Hogwarts.

The only wildcard that remained was how to deal with the elf that Kreacher was about to replace, once Kreacher had called him to Grimmauld Place. They all liked him and they really didn't want to do what they might have to do, but there wasn't another option – only he was bound to Hogwarts loosely enough for this to even be an option. Not even Kreacher had any exact idea on whether they would be able to stun him, obliviate him or if they even had to sever his link to Hogwarts, and what that would mean if it became a necessity. Stunning Kreacher hadn't been a problem, but then house-elves did get their power over their bond and the bond of a young elf to a thriving place like Hogwarts would surely be very different than that of an old and nearly-dying family elf of the Ancestral Home of a dark family. Amelia and Susan had scoured the library for any kind of information on this, but not even Slytherin's extensive library gave them any new information. They had reached a dead end and there was really only one way to proceed.

Taking a deep breath, Sirius nodded at Harry and spoke. "Do it, Kreacher."

Kreacher gave his master a nod, clapped his hands and cried "Dobby!"

* * *

><p>On September the 1st, the Hogwarts Express rolled out of King's Cross at exactly 11 o'clock. It was packed with students, but the mood was not as boisterous as it usually was. The terror of the attack on Diagon Alley was still present in everybody's minds. As a result, most people were in the compartments, talking quietly, reading, looking out the window and maybe playing Exploding Snap. No-one was running around in the corridors, screaming something about them finally going to Hogwarts, no-one was going from compartment to compartment to annoy other people... most students just sat there and contemplated what this school year would bring.<p>

Two of these people were Hermione Jean Granger and Neville Franklin Longbottom. They were sharing a compartment, even a bench, sitting next to each other, Hermione's head on Neville's shoulder, yet their eyes told that they were both far away – thinking about both past and future.

There once had been others, other friends than just the two of them. In first year, they had bonded with the sometimes clue- and tactless Ron Weasley and somewhat shy Susan Bones on their very first train-ride and quickly become friends during their first year, despite all their differences. They parted ways after the first year had ended, with Ron smilingly promising to write them all letters, nothing which they really believed he would.

They never saw Ron again. A week into the summer holiday the Weasley home was torched by Fiendfyre, sparing only Charlie, who was in Romania and Bill in Egypt from the fate that befallen their five siblings and their parents – being vaporised in the flames of hell. After Hermione had found out, she felt guilty for cursing Ron for not writing – she had, after all, damnit! - and cried herself to sleep for a whole week, only to emerge a changed, a hardened person.

Second year had been oh so very hard. They had all missed Ron's easy-going nature immensely, and while they became fast friends with the eccentric Luna Lovegood, a Ravenclaw first year, it always felt that Ron had left a whole that nobody could replace. All three of them, Hermione, Neville and Susan were rather shy people and Ron was the first time that they had a friend that challenged them to leave their comfort zone. Sure, he and Hermione had gotten into arguments a-plenty, but they still cared deeply for each other and a piece of each of them had died with Ron and never returned.

After Summer break, Susan didn't return. Same thing: the Ossuary had been torched, this time by Voldemort personally, and there were no survivors. Hermione, Neville and Luna became an even tighter group, not really trusting anybody but the others in the group. They didn't let anyone else close, for fear that enough death would emotionally cripple them once again.

After Christmas in third year, Neville and Hermione started the Defence Association, in order to better defend themselves against the looming threat of Voldemort and his Death Eaters; plus, their defence teachers weren't helping any. Many had come to the meetings initially. Not all of them stayed, but those that did were no children anymore, Neville could see it in their eyes. They had become hard and cold, like his and Hermione's. Some of them were lost in grief, some consumed by desire for revenge. Neville knew fully well that there were some students in there that would become monsters in the hunt of those that had wronged them, those that would commit atrocities, those that would maim and kill with pleasure, if only to come one step closer to those that had made them set out on their quest, and Neville couldn't blame them one bit for it. What did it matter, anyway?

The lessons continued and eventually saw fruition. Nothing big, but some DA members holding of a few junior Death Eaters in Hogsmeade until the teachers arrived, before they could rape and kill. That kind of thing. Nothing extraordinary, but for a few days, hope would flare up. They weren't beaten yet! And then, the next day, the owls would come again, delivering those accursed black envelopes that everybody knew by now, and it was all for nothing again.

And then came the battle of Diagon Alley. Their first real battle. With proper Death Eaters, Inner Circle members even. And they all fought their best, and it was almost never enough. No matter how much the DA had trained in the past three years, the Death Eaters were better, stronger, faster and more deadly.

Some of them had actually won their duels. Neville against Dolohov. Hermione against Alecto. Padma against Travers. But so so many more had lost their duels and their lives, becoming the playthings of the sick machinations of the Death Eaters. Entrail-Expelling, Lung-Shredding, Explosive Castration, they'd seen it all, and far too many had not walked away with their lives again.

Amongst them was Luna. Sweet, innocent Luna, that Hermione and Neville had protected from the world as best as they could. Their only real friend that wasn't the other one. And Mulciber had stripped her, raped her, cut off her breasts and forced her to choke on them. He hadn't even spoken the Headmaster about Luna. Neville had seen her mutilated corpse moments after the battle was over, but he just couldn't accept. He just couldn't.

Hermione and Neville's eyes caught and they both knew that they were thinking about who would be next. Hermione's parents? Grandparents? Augusta? One of their school acquaintances? Maybe the owls wouldn't come tomorrow, or the day after that, or even in the next week, but they would come. They always came. Those thrice-accursed Ministry owls, carrying those black envelopes. They were so sick of it. Why couldn't it all just end?

The train rolled nearer and nearer to the school that they had loved so much in their first year. Now it was just another place to wait for death, Hermione thought bitterly as she clung onto Neville's muscular body with all her might.

* * *

><p>Dobby had helped Kreacher before, when his Young Master, the Great Harry Potter Sir had sustained an injury that Kreacher himself couldn't heal, and the Master Harry Potter's Dogfather Sir had insisted that no hospital or any person in official capacity be contacted. Dobby had helped Kreacher with Young Master, and he had been kind and thanked Dobby for it! What a great wizard the Great Harry Potter Sir was! And now he was being called again. Dobby wondered what they wanted this time, but he was sure that it would be glorious!<p>

"_Stupefy!_"

The spell from the Great Harry Potter Sir's wand hit Dobby and bounced off. Surely this had been an accident, the Young Master would never harm Dobby, he had forbidden him to punish himself Master Harry Potter Sir was good and kind!

"_Stupefy!_"The Master Harry Potter's Dogfather and The Lady Bonesie cast together with the Great Harry Potter Sir and Dobby felt everything fading to black, falling, falling...

* * *

><p>Harry let out a breath he didn't knew he had been holding. It seemed that elves in Hogwarts employ were notoriously tougher than... well, Kreacher was his only comparison. Dobby had taken three powerful stunners to go unconscious, whereas normally even the most powerful adult wizard needed a maximum of two.<p>

Not wishing to be caught unawares now, Harry cast a magical monitoring charm on the out-cold Dobby, and he was glad that he did. Hogwarts was reversing the stunner somehow – clearly the castle knew that an elf under her protection had been attacked. Now, how could he remedy that... he started small – simply obliviated the memory of Dobby being stunned from Dobby – if Hogwarts had a mental link to the elves and found out about the attack by seeing Dobby attack through his own eyes, then this might do the trick. The others were crowded behind him, wearing sad faces – the sad face he'd be wearing if he didn't mask it – they all really, really liked Dobby, but they needed the information and the Hogwarts bond would never allow Dobby to spy on its Headmaster, that was for sure.

Sadly, though not surprisingly, Harry idea didn't work. Hogwarts continued re-awakening the stunned elf. Harry cast two more stunners, in Parseltongue on the unconscious elf. In order to by himself some time, and turned to the four people standing behind him.

"Right, Hogwarts is fighting this. Well, I assume this is Hogwarts. Something is fighting this, re-awakening Dobby even now as we speak. We can't let that happen. Ideas?"

"Did you try to obliviate the encounter?" Susan asked, she remembered that they had planned that as a first of three options, should a simple stunner fail to work.

"Yeah. No good." He quickly jumped into Dobby's mind, which was, while definitely different from a human one, similar enough in the important details. He quickly found the obliviation charm he had cast and saw that it was corroding away – the memory was returning. He quickly exited Dobby's head and relayed what he had seen to the foursome standing behind him, as he kneeled over Dobby's unconscious form.

"Well, then you'll have to try to erase every memory from being at Hogwarts from Dobby's memory." Amelia concluded sadly. She knew Harry knew this and was just stalling because this was something that he really didn't want to do, but it was too late now. They couldn't back out from what they had started. Speaking of what they had started...

"Kreacher!" She snapped. "Get to Hogwarts and take Dobby's place! You know what to do, we'll sort this out!" The ancient house-elf, now looking exactly like Dobby quickly disappeared from the living room, leaving only five humans and an unconscious elf.

"Right... here goes nothing." muttered Harry and, after a split-second of hesitation, cast a second memory charm, this one far more complex, and layered. It would erase any memory that Dobby ever had of working for Hogwarts, which should negate the bond, somehow. Hopefully.

At first, this seemed to be working, as the memory charm spread it's way through Dobby's mind, systematically erasing everything that Dobby had ever done in service of Hogwarts, from 1992 to 1996. His first day, negotiating pay with Dumbledore, was gone. The second day, the first time in the kitchen. They all kept coming, and all of them disappeared.

And then it was done. But the charm kept going. Dobby's life with the Malfoy's. The day that Lucius' had screamed "Take that!" before blasting the house-elf into a pile of used underwear, inadvertently freeing him. The first time he had to iron his hands. The first time the Malfoys pierced his ears with kitched knives.

Younger still. The days kept coming, and kept going. The first day of work at the Malfoy's. Being bought by Lucius Malfoy at a dinghy shop in Knockturn Alley. Living in the dark, in the shop, hoping that someone would pick him up and at the same time that no-one would do so because their lives would be so much more worse than here.

Younger still. Coming, going. His mother, nursing him. His father, cradling him. Then him being taken away only one hour after being born... off to work.

Being born.

Going... going... gone.

At the same time, the stunner had worn off. The link with Hogwarts was gone. So was everything else.

Dobby opened his eyes and looked into the grief-stricken eyes of Harry Potter. "Who is I?" The house-elf questioned. There was nothing there, nothing. What if this was the Master? What if he was disrespectful? What if-

And then Harry Potter knew that he just wanted to break down and cry.

* * *

><p>They strode through the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, three of the most powerful and magically gifted – at least in their field – magic users ever. And no-one would ever know. Because they stayed in the shadows, guiding, manipulating, but never leading.<p>

No one could see them, no matter how well they looked for Disillusionment Charms or the like, no charm could detect their body heat, their feet were silent, their bodies were invisible... Mad-Eye Moody could have walked passed and not noticed a thing, unless he stepped on a few toes, of course.

But the corridor was empty and they had nothing to worry about.

Outside, the snow was falling. It was a harsh winter, the January and February of 1981, but that didn't matter to them. It was warm in here – well, around their bodies, and they wouldn't even have needed it.

Their names were Pavle, Janus and Nero. Three names that, if the deeds of those using them became known, would inspire terror on par with the Dark Lord Voldemort themselves. But nobody knew their names, and they preferred it that way.

Pavle was a potions prodigy. He had invented thirty new potions while still in school and improved nearly two-hundred. He had perfected the Imperius Curse in liquid form, he had invented a potion that killed the subject and, based on the extra ingredients added, gave them the symptoms of a certain type of death. He had found a formula for Veritaserum that forced everyone, even non-humans to declare the whole truth without omissions and everything else that was believed to be of relevance.

Less than a tenth of these were known to the public. Most of them, the three kept and used only by themselves.

Janus was a master of illusion. He could cast a glamour, then subtract the magical signature, making it impossible to spot. He could mask body heat, magical signatures and any type of movement sounds. He could create illusions so realistic, that they could actually make people feel pain – no real wounds, of course, but his illusions looked so real, the brain of the attacked was convinced their attack was real and was forced to produce a pain reaction. He could disguise himself, from being as small to a one-year-old to being as big as Hagrid, all without a second though.

Nobody had ever not been fooled by one of his illusions.

The third was Nero, a Mind Mage. His mastery over the mind arts was absolute. He could create false identities within his mind and project them to his conscious mind with ease, and they would never be detected. He could hold twenty people under the Imperius curse simultaneously, and nobody had ever broken free of his Imperius. He could cast compulsion charms as strong as the Imperius of most people. He could alter memories in such a complete way that the changes made could never be discovered. And he could turn anybody into a master of the Mind Arts by any normal standards.

Today would mostly be Nero's job, though Janus had to make sure that they weren't spotted. Pavle was just along for the ride because he hated their target – well, their targets – and wanted to witness this.

Like they had estimated, most of the Order was already in session in the unused classroom in the East Wing. They settled down and prepared for the meeting to finish when they struck extremely good fortune.

Their target was coming towards them, presumably returning from the bathroom.

Oh this would be so much fun.

* * *

><p>Peter Pettigrew wasn't a very good wizard. He was adequate, nothing more, but he did have very good friends.<p>

James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin... all three of them were some of the most brilliant students to attend Hogwarts, each in their own way. And he, the mediocre Peter Pettigrew was part of their group. He had become an animagus, for fuck's sake, all thanks to their help!

Really, that compartment on the train had been the best choice of his life. Before, he was a pudgy boy who had no-one. In the space of twenty-four hours he had become group of what later become the coolest group in the school.

_But hang on! _A tiny voice shouted in his head, nagging, it was, it felt wrong, but he couldn't ignore it. _You were just their comic relief! Do you really think they LIKED you?_

_'_Shut up._' _He mentally muttered back, but the voice was strong, something that he never really been. 'I don't know what they see in me, that's true, but I'm a valued friend of theirs. Now stuff it.'

_Friend? Are you really that delusional? They laughed about you behind your back! They are the powerful ones, not you, and they never made you forget that!_

'That's not true.' He mumbled feebly, not even believing it himself any longer. 'They're great friends.'

_Of course they are. But why should they be a great friend to you? You're worthless and pathetic! The greatest power that you have is to turn yourself into a rat! How can that compare with any of them? With Sirius's DADA prowess? With James' Transfiguration mastery? With Remus' brains in just about everything? Give up! You see, it's power! That's what they respect. Why would they every respect you?_

It was true, Peter thought tiredly. He'd never had a more taxing walk from bathroom to classroom. Why would they every respect me? I'm just the comic relief. A nobody. A near-squib. Peter choked back the tears that were already running down his face.

_Does it have to be like that, though? I mean... power... you know promises it. Are you so weak that you won't even try that?_

Never, Peter thought. I might be weak, I might be their comic relief, but they still mean a lot to me. And I'd never betray them.

_Even after having been betrayed, strung-along, used for so long? I know you, Peter, you wish to be their equal, and you know as well as I do what you have to do to achieve that_.

The voice never spoke to him again. But one week later, he had a new tattoo on his left arm.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Note:<strong> New chapter! The first new chapter! Like I said, this will be getting pretty dark, and you've gotten a taste for it. I think I can say now that at the end... 5 of the main characters will still be alive. The rest will have kicked the bucket, in most cases violently. Also, there's a hint in here as to the identity of either Janus or Nero. If you think you've got it, put it in a review, if it's correct, I'll message you. Nothing public, but you get to feel good about being clever. How does that sound?


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